31822019424779 


JOSEPH  AMABEL  WRIGHT 
THEIR  BOOK 


LIBRARY 

UN1VtR«Tt  Of 
CALtW'* 

SANCHEGO 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA   SAN  DIEGO 


3  1822  01942  4779 


Central  University  Library 

University  of  California,  San  Diego 
Please  Note:  This  item  is  subject  to  recall. 

Date  Due 


JAN  3  1  1S95 
MOV  ?  1  KQ& 


Cl  39  (7/93) 


UCSDLb. 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 


[12 


MILLIGAN   COURT 

A  typical,  fragmentary  survival  of  Old  Greenwich 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 


By 
ANNA  ALICE  CHAPIN 

Author  of  "  Wonder  Tales  from  Wagner," 
"  Masters  of  Music,"  etc. 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 
ALLAN   GILBERT   CRAM 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 

1917 


COPYRIGHT,  1917.  BY 
DODD.  MEAD  AND  COMPANY,  INC. 


To 

VINCENT  PEPE, 

WHO  FIRST  SUGGESTED  THE  WRITING  OF  IT, 
THIS  BOOK  IS  DEDICATED 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTEE  PACK 

I    THE  CHEQUERED  HISTORY  OF  A  CITY  SQUARE  .  3 

II    THE  GREEN  VILLAGE 35 

III  THE  GALLANT  CAREER  OF  SIR  PETER  WARREN  71 

IV  THE  STORY  OF  RICHMOND  HILL  ....  103 
V    "ToM  PAINE,  INFIDEL" 145 

VI    PAGES  OF  ROMANCE 173 

VII    RESTAURANTS,  AND  THE  MAGIC  DOOR      .       .  209 

VIII    VILLAGERS 243 

IX    AND  THEN  MORE  VILLAGERS 269 

A  LAST  WORD 299 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Milligan  Court Frontispiece 


FACING 

PAGE 


Map  of  Old  Greenwich  Village 7 

Oldest  Building  on  the  Square 24 

Jefferson  Market 38 

The  Cradle  of  Bohemia 60 

Old  St.  John's 82 

Washington  Arch 108 

The  Butterick  Building 130 

59  Grove  Street 148 

Grove  Court 164 

The  Brevoort  House 180 

Grove  Street 198 

The  Dutch  Oven 224 

Patchin  Place 246 

Washington  Square  South 258 

Macdougal  Alley 276 

A  Greenwich  Studio                    290 


A  FIRST  WORD 

"  'TlS  an  awkward  thing  to  play  with  souls," — 
and,  to  my  mind,  Greenwich  Village  has  a  very 
personal  soul  that  requires  very  personal  and 
very  careful  handling.  This  little  foreword  is 
to  crave  pardon  humbly  if  my  touch  has  not 
been  light,  or  deft,  or  sure.  There  are  so  many 
things  that  I  may  have  left  out,  so  many  ways 
in  which  I  must  have  erred. 

And  I  want  to  thank  people  too, — just  here. 
So  many  people  there  are  to  thank!  I  cannot 
simply  dismiss  the  matter  with  the  usual  acknowl- 
edgment of  a  list  of  authorities — to  which,  by 
the  bye,  I  have  tried  to  cling  as  though  they  were 
life-buoys  in  a  stormy  sea  of  research! 

There  are  the  kindly  individuals, — J.  H. 
Henry,  Vincent  Pepe,  William  van  der  Weyde,  J. 
B.  Martin,  and  the  rest, — who  have  so  generously 
placed  their  own  extensive  information  and  col- 
lected material  at  my  disposal.  And  there  are 
the  small  army  of  librarians  and  clerks  and  secre- 
taries and  so  on,  who  have  given  me  unlimited 
patience  and  most  encouraging  personal  interest. 

And  finally,  beyond  all  these,  are  the  Villagers 
who  have  taken  me  in,  and  made  me  welcome, 

-t-  ix  -*• 


A  FIRST  WORD 

and  won  my  heart  for  all  time.  Everyone  has 
been  so  kind  that  my  "  thank  you "  must  take 
in  all  of  Greenwich. 

It  is  said  that  hospitality,  neighbourliness  and 
genuine  cordiality  are  traits  of  any  well-conducted 
village.  Then  be  sure  that  our  Village  in  the  city 
is  not  behind  its  rustic  fellows.  For,  wherever 
you  stray  or  wherever  you  stop  within  its  confines, 
you  will  always  find  the  latch-string  hung  out- 
side. 


-»-  x-*- 


"  Does  a  bird  need  to  theorise  about  building 
its  nest,  or  boast  of  it  when  built?  All  good  work 
is  essentially  done  that  way — without  hesitation, 
without  difficulty,  without  boasting.  .  .  .  And 
now,  returning  to  the  broader  question,  what  these 
arts  and  labours  of  life  have  to  teach  us  of  its 
mystery,  this  is  the  first  of  their  lessons — that  the 
more  beautiful  the  art,  the  more  it  is  essentially 
the  work  of  people  who  .  .  .  are  striving  for 
the  fulfilment  of  a  law,  and  the  grasp  of  a  loveli- 
ness, which  they  have  not  yet  attained.  .  .  . 
Whenever  the  arts  and  labours  of  life  are  fulfilled 
in  this  spirit  of  striving  against  misrule,  and  doing 
whatever  we  have  to  do,  honourably  and  per- 
fectly, they  invariably  bring  happiness,  as  much 
as  seems  possible  to  the  nature  of  man." 

—JOHN    RUSKIN. 


The  Chequered  History  of  a 
City  Square 


GREENWICH    VILLAGE 


CHAPTER  I 

The  Chequered  History  of  a  City  Square 

...  I  know  not  whether  it  is  owing  to  the  tenderness  of 
early  association,  but  this  portion  of  New  York  appears  to 
many  persons  the  most  delectable.  It  has  a  kind  of  established 
repose  which  is  not  of  frequent  occurrence  in  other  quarters  of 
the  long,  shrill  city ;  it  has  a  riper,  richer,  more  honourable  look 
than  any  of  the  upper  ramifications  of  the  great  longitudinal 
thoroughfare — the  look  of  having  had  something  of  a  social 
history. — HENRY  JAMES  (in  "Washington  Square"). 

|  HERE  is  little  in  our  busy,  modern, 
progressive  city  to  suggest  Father 
Knickerbocker,  with  his  three-cornered 
hat  and  knee-breeches,  and  his  old- 
world  air  so  homely  and  so  picturesque.  Our 
great  streets,  hemmed  by  stone  and  marble  and 
glittering  plate  glass,  crowded  with  kaleido- 
scopic cosmopolitan  traffic,  ceaselessly  resonant 
with  twentieth  century  activity,  do  not  seem 
a  happy  setting  for  our  old-fashioned  and  be- 
loved presiding  shade.  Where  could  he  fall 
a-nodding,  to  dream  himself  back  into  the  quaint 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

and  gallant  days  of  the  past?  Where  would  he 
smoke  his  ancient  Dutch  pipe  in  peace?  One 
has  a  mental  picture  of  Father  Knickerbocker 
shaking  his  queued  head  over  so  much  noise  and 
haste,  so  many  new-fangled,  cluttering  things 
and  ways,  such  a  confusion  of  aims  and  pursuits 
on  his  fine  old  island!  And  he  would  be  a 
wretched  ghost  indeed  if  doomed  to  haunt  only 
upper  New  York.  But  it  happens  that  he  has 
a  sanctuary,  a  haven  after  his  own  heart,  where 
he  can  still  draw  a  breath  of  relief,  among 
buildings  small  but  full  of  age  and  dignity  and 
with  the  look  of  homes  about  them;  on  restful, 
crooked  little  streets  where  there  remain  trees 
and  grass-plots;  in  the  old-time  purlieus  of  Wash- 
ington Square  and  Greenwich  Village! 

The  history  of  old  New  York  reads  like  a 
romance.  There  is  scarcely  a  plot  of  ground 
below  Fourteenth  Street  without  its  story  and 
its  associations,  its  motley  company  of  memories 
and  spectres  both  good  and  bad,  its  imperish- 
ably  adventurous  savour  of  the  past,  imprisoned 
in  the  dry  prose  of  registries  and  records.  Let 
us  just  take  a  glance,  a  bird's-eye  view  as  it 
were,  of  that  region  which  we  now  know  as 
Washington  Square,  as  it  was  when  the  city  of 
New  York  bought  it  for  a  Potter's  Field. 

Perhaps  you  have  tried  to  visualise  old  New 


CHEQUERED  HISTORY  OF  A  CITY  SQUARE 

York  as  hard  as  I  have  tried.  But  I  will  wager 
that,  like  myself,  you  have  been  unable  to  con- 
jure up  more  than  a  nebulous  and  tenuous 
vision, — a  modern  New  York's  shadow,  the 
ghostly  skeleton  of  our  city  as  it  appears  today. 
For  instance,  when  you  have  thought  of  old 
Washington  Square,  you  have  probably  thought 
of  it  pretty  much  as  it  is  now,  only  of  course 
with  an  old-time  atmosphere.  The  whole 
Village,  with  all  your  best  imaginative  efforts, 
persists — does  it  not? — in  being  a  part  of  New 
York  proper. 

It  was  not  until  I  had  come  to  browse  among 
the  oldest  of  Manhattan's  oldest  records, —  (and 
at  that  they're  not  very  old!) — those  which  show 
the  reaching  out  of  the  fingers  of  early  progress, 
the  first  shoots  of  metropolitan  growth,  that  the 
picture  really  came  to  me.  Then  I  saw  New 
York  as  a  little  city  which  had  sprung  up  almost 
with  the  speed  of  a  modern  mushroom  town. 
First,  in  Peter  Minuit's  day,  its  centre  was  the 
old  block  house  below  Bowling  Green;  then  it 
spread  out  a  bit  until  it  became  a  real,  thriving 
city, — with  its  utmost  limits  at  Canal  Street! 
Greenwich  and  the  Bowery  Lane  were  isolated 
little  country  hamlets,  the  only  ones  on  the  island, 
and  far,  far  out  of  town.  They  appeared  as  in- 
accessible to  the  urban  dwellers  of  that  day  as  do 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

residents  on  the  Hudson  to  the  confirmed  city 
people  nowadays; — nay,  still  more  so,  since  trains 
and  motors,  subways  and  surface  cars,  have  more 
or  less  annihilated  distance  for  us. 

Washington  Square  was  then  in  the  real  wilds, 
an  uncultivated  region,  half  swamp,  half  sand, 
with  the  Sand  Hill  Road, — an  old  Indian  trail,— 
running  along  the  edge  of  it,  and  Minetta  Creek 
taking  its  sparkling  course  through  its  centre. 
It  was  many  years  before  Minetta  was  even 
spanned  by  a  bridge,  for  no  one  lived  anywhere 
near  it. 

Peter  Stuyvesant's  farm  gave  the  Bowery  its 
name,  for  you  must  know  that  Bouwerie  came 
from  the  Dutch  word  Bouiverij,  which  means 
farm,  and  this  country  lane  ran  through  the 
grounds  of  the  Stuyvesant  homestead.  A  branch 
road  from  the  Bouwerie  Lane  led  across  the 
stretch  of  alternate  marsh  and  sand  to  the  tiny 
settlement  of  Greenwich,  running  from  east  to 
west.  The  exact  line  is  lost  today,  but  we  know 
it  followed  the  general  limit  of  Washington 
Square  North.  On  the  east  was  the  Indian  trail. 

Sarah  Comstock  says: 

"  The  Indian  trail  has  been,  throughout  our 
country,  the  beginning  of  the  road.  In  his  turn, 
the  Indian  often  followed  the  trail  of  the  beast. 
Such  beginnings  are  indiscernible  for  the  most 


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MAP  OF  OLD  GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

A  section  of  Bernard  Ratzer's  map  of  New  York  and  its  suburbs,  made  in 
the  Eighteenth  Century,  when  Greenwich  was  more  than  two  miles 

from  the  city 


CHEQUERED  HISTORY  OF  A  CITY  SQUARE 

part,  in  the  dusk  of  history,  but  we  still  trace 
many  an  old  path  that  once  knew  the  tread  of 
moccasined  feet." 


Here,  between  the  short  lane  that  ran  from  the 
Bouwerij  toward  the  first  young  sprout  of  Green- 
wich, and  the  primitive  Sa  i  Hill  (or  Sandy 
Hill)  Trail  lay  a  certain  was  tract  of  land.  It 
was  flanked  by  the  sand  me  nds, — part  of  the 
Zantberg,  or  long  range  of  s;  nd  hills, — haunted 
by  wild  fowl,  and  utterly  aloof  from  even  that 
primitive  civilisation.  The  brook  flowed  from 
the  upper  part  of  the  Zantberg  Hills  to  the  Hud- 
son River,  and  emptied  itself  into  that  great  chan- 
nel at  a  point  somewhere  near  Charlton  Street. 
The  name  Minetta  came  from  the  Dutch  root, — 
min, — minute,  diminutive.  With  the  popular 
suffix  tje  (the  Dutch  could  no  more  resist  that 
than  the  French  can  resist  ette!)  it  became  Mintje, 
— the  little  one, — to  distinguish  it  from  the  Groote 
Kill  or  large  creek  a  mile  away.  It  was  also 
sometimes  called  Bestavaar's  Killetje,  or  Grand- 
father's Little  Creek,  but  Mintje  persisted,  and 
soon  became  Minetta. 

Minetta  was  a  fine  fishing  brook,  and  the  ad- 
jacent region  was  full  of  wild  duck;  so,  take  it 
all  in  all,  it  was  a  game  preserve  such  as  sports- 
men love.  It  seems  that  the  old  Dutch  settlers 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

were  fond  of  hunting  and  fishing,  for  they  came 
here  to  shoot  and  angle,  as  we  would  go  into— 
let  us  say — the  Adirondacks  or  the  Maine  woods! 

"  A  high  range  of  sand  hills  traversed  a  part 
of  the  island,  from  Varick  and  Charlton  to  Eighth 
and  Green  streets,"  says  Mary  L.  Booth,  in  her 
history.  "  To  the  north  of  these  lay  a  valley 
through  which  ran  a  brook,  which  formed  the 
outlet  of  the  springy  marshes  of  Washington 
Square.  ..." 

And  here,  on  the  self-same  ground  of  those 
"  springy  marshes,"  is  Washington  Square  today. 

The  lonely  Zantberg, — the  wind-blown  range 
of  sand  hills;  the  cries  of  the  wild  birds  breaking 
the  stillness;  the  quietly  rippling  stream  winding 
downward  from  the  higher  ground  in  the  north, 
and  now  and  then,  in  the  spring  of  the  year, 
overflowing  its  bed  in  a  wilderness  of  brambles 
and  rushes; — do  these  things  make  you  realise 
more  plainly  the  sylvan  remoteness  of  that  part 
of  New  York  which  we  now  know  as  Downtown? 

A  glance  at  Bernard  Ratzer's  map — made  in 
the  beginning  of  the  last  half  of  the  eighteenth 
century  for  the  English  governor,  Sir  Henry 
Moore — shows  the  only  important  holdings  in  the 
neighbourhood  at  that  time:  the  Warren  place,  the 
Herrin  (Haring  or  Harring)  farm,  the  Eliot 
estate,  etc.  The  site  of  the  Square,  in  fact,  was 


CHEQUERED  HISTORY  OF  A  CITY  SQUARE 

originally  composed  of  two  separate  tracts  and 
had  two  sources  of  title,  divided  by  Minetta 
Brook,  which  crossed  the  land  about  sixty  feet 
west  of  where  Fifth  Avenue  starts  today.  West- 
ward lay  that  rather  small  portion  of  the  land 
which  belonged  to  the  huge  holdings  of  Sir  Peter 
Warren,  of  whom  more  anon. 

The  eastern  part  was  originally  the  property 
of  the  Herrings,  Harrings  or  Herrins, — a  family 
prominent  among  the  early  Dutch  settlers  and 
later  distinguished  for  patriotic  services  to  the 
new  republic.  They  appear  to  have  been  directly 
descended  from  that  intrepid  Hollander,  Jan 
Hareng  of  the  city  of  Hoorn,  who  is  said  to  have 
held  the  narrow  point  of  a  dike  against  a  thou- 
sand Spaniards,  and  performed  other  prodigious 
feats  of  valour.  In  the  genealogical  book  I 
read,  it  was  suggested  that  the  name  Hareng 
originated  in  some  amazingly  large  herring  catch 
which  (I  quote  verbatim  from  that  learned  book) 
"  astonished  the  city  of  Hoorn," — and  henceforth 
attached  itself  to  the  redoubtable  fisherman! 

The  earliest  of  the  family  in  this  city  was  one 
Jan  Pietersen  Haring,  and  his  descendants  worked 
unceasingly  for  the  liberty  of  the  republic  and 
against  the  Tory  party.  In  1748,  Elbert  Haring 
received  a  grant  of  land  which  was  undoubtedly 
the  farm  shown  in  the  Ratzer  map.  A  tract  of 

1-9-1. 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

it  was  sold  by  the  Harring  (Herring)  family  to 
Cornelius  Roosevelt;  it  passed  next  into  Jacob 
Sebor's  hands,  and  in  1795  was  bought  by 
Col.  William  S.  Smith,  a  brilliant  officer  in  Wash- 
ington's army,  and  holder  of  various  posts  of 
public  office. 

There  was  a  Potter's  Field,  a  cemetery  for  the 
poor  and  friendless,  far  out  in  the  country, — i.e, 
somewhere  near  Madison  Square,— but  it  was 
neither  big  enough  nor  accessible  enough.  In 
1789,  the  city  decided  to  have  another  one.  The 
tract  of  land  threaded  by  Minetta  Water,  half 
marsh  and  half  sand,  was  just  about  what  was 
wanted.  It  was  retired,  the  right  distance  from 
town  and  excellently  adapted  to  the  purposes  of 
a  burying  ground.  The  ground,  popular  his- 
torians to  the  contrary,  was  by  no  means  uni- 
formly swampy.  When  filled  in,  it  would, 
indeed,  be  dry  and  sandy, — the  sandy  soil  of 
Greenwich  extends,  in  some  places,  to  a  depth 
of  fifty  feet.  Accordingly,  the  city  bought  the 
land  from  the  Herrings  and  made  a  Potter's  Field. 
Eight  years  later,  by  the  bye,  they  bought  Colonel 
Smith's  tract  too,  to  add  to  the  field.  The  entire 
plot  was  ninety  lots, — eight  lots  to  an  acre, — and 
comprised  nearly  the  entire  site  of  the  present 
square.  The  extreme  western  part,  a  strip  ex- 
tending east  of  Macdougal  Street  to  the  Brook,  a 

-t-  10  -*- 


CHEQUERED  HISTORY  OF  A  CITY  SQUARE 

scant  thirty  feet, — was  bought  from  the  Warren 
heirs. 

Minetta  Lane,  which  was  close  by,  had  a  few 
aristocratic  country  residents  by  that  time,  and 
every  one  was  quite  outraged  by  the  notion  of 
having  a  paupers'  graveyard  so  near.  Several 
rich  people  of  the  countryside  even  offered  to 
present  the  city  corporation  with  a  much  larger 
and  more  valuable  plot  of  ground  somewhere 
else;  but  the  officials  were  firm.  The  public 
notice  was  relentlessly  made,  of  the  purchase  of 
ground  "  bounded  on  the  road  leading  from  the 
Bowerie  Lane  at  the  two-mile  stone  to  Green- 
wich." 

When  you  next  stroll  through  the  little  quiet 
park  in  the  shadow  of  the  Arch  and  Turini's  great 
statue  of  Garibaldi,  watching  the  children  at 
play,  the  tramps  and  wayfarers  resting,  the  tired 
horses  drinking  from  the  fountain  the  S.  P.  C.  A. 
has  placed  there  for  their  service  and  comfort, 
the  old  dreaming  of  the  past,  and  the  young 
dreaming  of  the  future, — see,  if  you  please,  if  it 
is  not  rather  a  wistfully  pleasant  thought  to  re- 
call the  poor  and  the  old  and  the  nameless  and 
the  humble  who  were  put  to  rest  there  a  century 
and  a  quarter  ago? 

The  Aceldama  of  the  Priests  of  Jerusalem  was 
"  the  potter's  field  to  bury  strangers  in,"  accord- 

•4-  II  -*- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

ing  to  St.  Matthew;  and  in  the  Syriac  version 
that  meant  literally  "  the  field  of  sleep."  It  is 
true  that  when  they  made  use  of  Judas  Iscariot's 
pieces  of  silver,  they  twisted  the  syllables  to 
mean  the  "  field  of  blood,"  but  it  was  a  play 
upon  words  only.  The  Field  of  Sleep  was  the 
Potter's  Field,  where  the  weary  "  strangers " 
rested,  at  home  at  last. 

There  is  nothing  intrinsically  repellent  in  the 
memories  attached  to  a  Potter's  Field, — save,  pos- 
sibly, in  this  case,  a  certain  scandalous  old  story 
of  robbing  it  of  its  dead  for  the  benefit  of  the 
medical  students  of  the  town.  That  was  a  dis- 
graceful business  if  you  like!  But  public  feeling 
was  so  bitter  and  retributive  that  the  practice 
was  speedily  discontinued.  So,  again,  there  is 
nothing  to  make  us  recoil,  here  among  the  green 
shadows  of  the  square,  from  the  recollection  of 
the  Potter's  Field.  But  there  is  always  something 
fundamentally  shocking  in  any  place  of  public 
punishment.  And, — alas! — there  is  that  stain 
upon  the  fair  history  of  this  square  of  which  we 
are  writing. 

For — there  was  a  gallows  in  the  old  Potter's 
Field.  Upon  the  very  spot  where  you  may  be 
watching  the  sparrows  or  the  budding  leaves, 
offenders  were  hanged  for  the  edification  or  in- 
timidation of  huge  crowds  of  people.  Twenty 

-t-  12  -*- 


CHEQUERED  HISTORY  OF  A  CITY  SQUARE 

highwaymen  were  despatched  there,  and  at  least 
one  historian  insists  that  they  were  all  executed 
at  once,  and  that  Lafayette  watched  the  per- 
formance. Certainly  a  score  seems  rather  a  large 
number,  even  in  the  days  of  our  stern  forefathers ; 
one  cannot  help  wondering  if  the  event  were  pre- 
sented to  the  great  Frenchman  as  a  form  of  enter- 
tainment. 

In  1795  came  one  of  those  constantly  recurring 
epidemics  of  yellow  fever  which  used  to  devastate 
early  Manhattan;  and  in  1797  came  a  worse  one. 
Many  bodies  were  brought  from  other  burying 
grounds,  and  when  the  scourge  of  smallpox  killed 
off  two  thousand  persons  in  one  short  space,  six 
hundred  and  sixty-seven  of  them  were  laid  in 
this  particular  public  cemetery.  During  one  very 
bad  time,  the  rich  as  well  as  the  poor  were 
brought  there,  and  there  were  nearly  two  thou- 
sand bodies  sleeping  in  the  Potter's  Field. 

People  who  had  died  from  yellow  fever  were 
wrapped  in  great  yellow  sheets  before  they  were 
buried, — a  curious  touch  of  symbolism  in  keep- 
ing with  the  fantastic  habit  of  mind  which  we 
find  everywhere  in  the  early  annals  of  America. 
Mr.  E.  N.  Tailer,  among  others,  can  recall,  many 
years  later,  seeing  the  crumbling  yellow  folds  of 
shrouds  uncovered  by  breaking  coffin  walls,  when 
the  heavy  guns  placed  in  the  Square  sank  too 

-*-  13 -j- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

weightily  into  the  ground,  and  crushed  the  trench- 
vaults. 

It  would  be  interesting  to  examine,  in  fancy, 
those  lost  and  sometimes  non-existent  headstones 
of  the  Field, — that  is,  to  try  to  tell  a  few  of  the 
tales  that  cling  about  those  who  were  buried 
there.  But  the  task  is  difficult,  and  after  all, 
tombstones  yield  but  cheerless  reading.  That 
the  sleepers  in  the  Potter's  Field  very  often  had 
not  even  that  shelter  of  tombstones  makes  their 
stories  the  more  elusive  and  the  more  melancholy. 
One  or  two  slight  records  stand  out  among  the 
rest,  notably  the  curious  one  attached  to  the  last 
of  the  stones  to  be  removed  from  Washington 
Square.  I  believe  that  it  was  in  1857  that  Dr. 
John  Francis,  in  an  address  before  the  Historical 
Society  of  New  York,  told  this  odd  story,  which 
must  here  be  only  touched  upon. 

One  Benjamin  Perkins,  "  a  charlatan  believer  in 
mesmeric  influence,"  plied  his  trade  in  early  Man- 
hattan. He  seems  to  have  belonged  to  that  vast 
army  of  persons  who  seriously  believe  their  own 
teachings  even  when  they  know  them  to  be  pre- 
posterous. Perkins  made  a  specialty  of  yellow 
fever,  and  insisted  that  he  could  cure  it  by  hyp- 
notism. That  he  had  a  following  is  in  no  way 
strange,  considering  his  day  and  generation,  but 
the  striking  point  about  this  is  that,  when  he  was 

-*-  14  -*- 


CHEQUERED  HISTORY  OF  A  CITY  SQUARE 

exposed  to  the  horror  himself,  he  tried  to  auto- 
mesmerise  himself  out  of  it.  After  three  days  he 
died,  as  Dr.  Francis  says,  "  a  victim  of  his  own 
temerity." 

And  still  the  gallows  stood  on  the  Field  of  Sleep, 
and  also  a  big  elm  tree  which  sometimes  served 
as  the  "  gallows  tree."  Naturally,  Indians  and 
negroes  predominated  in  the  lists  of  malefactors 
executed.  The  redmen  were  distrusted  from  the 
beginning  on  Manhattan, — and  with  some  basic 
reason,  one  must  admit; — as  for  the  blacks,  they 
were  more  severely  dealt  with  than  any  other 
class.  The  rigid  laws  and  restrictions  of  that  day 
were  applied  especially  rigidly  to  the  slaves.  A 
slave  was  accounted  guilty  of  heavy  crimes  on 
the  very  lightest  sort  of  evidence,  and  the  penal- 
ties imposed  seem  to  us  out  of  all  proportion  to 
the  acts.  Arson,  for  instance,  was  a  particularly 
heinous  offence — when  committed  by  a  negro. 
The  negro  riots,  which  form  such  an  exceedingly 
black  chapter  in  New  York's  history,  and  which 
horrify  our  more  humane  modern  standards  with 
ghastly  pictures  of  hangings  and  burnings  at  the 
stake,  were  often  caused  by  nothing  more  crim- 
inal than  incendiarism.  One  very  bad  period  of 
this  sort  of  disorder  started  with  a  trifling  fire  in 
Sir  Peter  Warren's  house, — the  source  of  which 
was  not  discovered, — and  later  grew  to  ungovern- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

able  proportions  through  other  acts  of  the  same 
sort 

As  late  as  1819,  a  young  negro  girl  named  Rose 
Butler  was  hanged  in  our  Square  before  an  im- 
mense crowd,  including  many  women  and  young 
children.  Kindly  read  what  the  New  York 
Evening  Post  said  about  it  in  its  issue  of  July  9th: 

"  Rose,  a  black  girl  who  had  been  sentenced  to 
be  hung  for  setting  fire  to  a  dwelling  house,  and 
who  was  respited  for  a  few  days,  in  the  hope 
that  she  would  disclose  some  accomplice  in  her 
wickedness,  was  executed  yesterday  at  two  o'clock 
near  the  Potter's  Field." 

And  in  Charles  H.  Haswell's  delightful 
"  Reminiscences,"  there  is  one  passage  which  has, 
for  modern  ears,  rather  too  Spartan  a  ring: 

"A  leading  daily  paper  referred  to  her  (he 
speaks  of  Rose)  execution  in  a  paragraph  of  five 
lines,  without  noticing  any  of  the  unnecessary 
and  absurd  details  that  are  given  in  the  present 
day  in  like  cases;  neither  was  her  dying  speech 
recorded.  ..." 

Thomas  Janvier  declares  that  she  was  accused 
of  murder,  but  all  other  authorities  say  that  poor 
Rose's  "  wickedness  "  had  consisted  of  lighting  a 

-*-  16  -J- 


CHEQUERED  HISTORY  OF  A  CITY  SQUARE 

fire  under  the  staircase  of  her  master's  house, 
with,  or  so  it  was  asserted,  "  a  malicious  intent." 
One  sees  that  it  was  quite  easy  to  get  hanged  in 
those  days, — especially  if  you  happened  to  be  a 
negro!  The  great  elm  tree,  on  a  branch  of  which 
Rose  was  hanged,  stood  intact  in  the  Square  until 
1890.  I  am  glad  it  is  gone  at  last! 

Old  Manhattan  was  as  strictly  run  as  discipli- 
nary measures  and  rules  could  contrive  and  guar- 
antee. The  old  blue  laws  were  stringently  en- 
forced, and  the  penalty  for  infringement  was 
usually  a  sharp  one.  In  the  unpublished  record 
of  the  city  clerk  we  find,  next  to  the  item  that 
records  Elbert  Harring's  application  for  a  land- 
grant,  a  note  to  the  effect  that  a  "  Publick  Whip- 
per  "  had  been  appointed  on  the  same  day,  at  five 
pounds  quarterly. 

Public  notices  of  that  time,  printed  in  the  cur- 
rent press,  remind  the  reader  of  some  of  these 
aforementioned  rules  and  regulations.  We  read 
that  "  Tapsters  are  forbid  to  sell  to  the  Indians," 
and  that  "  unseasonable  night  tippling "  is  also 
tabooed;  likewise  drinking  after  nine  in  the  eve- 
ning when  curfew  rings,  or  "  on  a  Sunday  before 
three  o'clock,  when  divine  service  shall  be  over." 

I  wonder  whether  little  old  "  Washington 
Hall "  was  built  too  late  to  come  under  these 
regulations?  It  was  a  roadhouse  of  some  repute 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

in  1820,  and  a  famous  meeting  place  for  celeb- 
rities in  the  sporting  world.  It  was,  too,  a 
tavern  and  coffee  house  for  travellers  (its  punch 
was  famous!)  and  the  stagecoaches  stopped  there 
to  change  horses.  At  this  moment  of  writing  it 
is  still  standing,  on  the  south  of  Washington 
Square, — I  think  number  58, — with  other  shabby 
structures  of  wood,  which,  for  some  inscrutable 
reason,  have  never  been  either  demolished  or  im- 
proved. Now  they  are  doomed  at  last,  and  are 
to  make  way  for  new  and  grand  apartment 
houses;  and  so  these,  among  the  oldest  buildings 
in  Greenwich,  drift  into  the  mist  of  the  past. 

And  in  that  same  part  of  the  Square — in  num- 
ber 59  or  60,  it  is  said — lived  one  who  cannot 
be  omitted  from  any  story  of  the  Potter's  Field: 
Daniel  Megie,  the  city's  gravedigger.  In  1819 
he  bought  a  plot  of  ground  from  one  John  Ire- 
land, and  erected  a  small  frame  house,  where  he 
lived  and  where  he  stored  the  tools  of  his  rather 
grim  trade.  For  three  years  he  dwelt  there, 
smoothing  the  resting  places  in  the  Field  of 
Sleep;  then,  in  1823,  a  new  Potter's  Field  was 
opened  at  the  point  now  known  as  Bryant  Park, 
and  the  bodies  from  the  lower  cemetery  were 
carried  there.  Megie,  apparently,  lost  his  job, 
sold  out  to  Joseph  Dean  and  disappeared  into 
obscurity.  It  is  interesting  to  note  that  he  bought 

-«-  18-?- 


CHEQUERED  HISTORY  OF  A  CITY  SQUARE 

his  plot  in  the  first  place  for  $500;  now  it  is 
incorporated  in  the  apartment  house  site  which 
is  estimated  at  about  $250,000! 

There  is  a  legend  to  the  effect  that  Governor 
Lucius  Robinson  later  occupied  this  same  house, 
but  the  writer  does  not  vouch  for  the  fa"ct.  The 
Governor  certainly  lived  somewhere  in  the 
vicinity,  and  his  favourite  walk  was  on  Amity 
Street, — why  can't  we  call  it  that  now,  instead 
of  the  cold  and  colourless  Third  Street? 

I  find  that  I  have  said  nothing  of  Monument 
Lane, — sometimes  called  Obelisk  Lane, — yet  it 
was  quite  a  landmark  in  its  day,  as  one  may 
gather  from  the  fact  that  Ratzer  thought  it  im- 
portant enough  to  put  in  his  official  map.  It 
ran,  I  think,  almost  directly  along  North  Wash- 
ington Square,  and,  at  one  point,  formed  part 
of  the  "  Inland  Road  to  Greenwich  "  which  was 
the  scene  of  Revolutionary  manoeuvres.  Monu- 
ment Lane  was  so  called  because  at  the  end  of  it 
(about  Fifteenth  Street  and  Eighth  Avenue)  stood 
a  statue  of  the  much-adored  English  general,  James 
Wolfe,  whose  storming  of  the  Heights  of  Abra- 
ham in  the  Battle  of  Quebec,  and  attendant  defeat 
of  the  Marquis  de  Montcalm,  have  made  him 
illustrious  in  history.  After  the  Revolution,  the 
statue  disappeared,  and  there  is  no  record  of  its 
fate. 

-*-  19  -*- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

With  the  passing  of  the  old  Potter's  Field,  came 
many  changes.  Mayor  Stephen  Allen  (later  lost 
on  the  Henry  Clay),  made  signal  civic  improve- 
ments; he  levelled,  drained  and  added  three  and 
a  half  acres  to  the  field.  In  short,  it  became  a 
valuable  tract  of  ground.  Society,  driven  steadily 
upward  from  Bowling  Green,  Bond  Street, 
Bleecker  and  the  rest,  had  commenced  to  settle 
down  in  the  country.  What  had  yesterday  been 
rural  districts  were  suburbs  today. 

In  1806  there  were  as  many  as  fifteen  families 
in  this  neighbourhood  rich  and  great  enough  to 
have  carriages.  Colonel  Turnbull  had  an  "  out 
of  town "  house  at,  approximately,  Eighth  and 
Macdougal  streets, — a  charming  cottage,  with 
twenty  acres  of  garden  land  which  today  are 
worth  millions.  Growing  tired  of  living  in  the 
country,  he  offered  to  sell  his  place  to  his  friend, 
Nehemiah  Rogers;  but  the  latter  decided  against 
it. 

"It  is  too  far  out  of  town!"  he  declared. 

"But  you  have  a  carriage!"  exclaimed  the 
Colonel.  "  You  can  drive  in  to  the  city  when- 
ever you  want  to!  " 

The  distance  was  too  great,  however,  and  Mr. 
Rogers  did  not  buy. 

By  1826,  however,  the  tide  had  carried  many 
persons  of  wealth  out  to  this  neighbourhood,  and 

-*-  20  -*- 


CHEQUERED  HISTORY  OF  A  CITY  SQUARE 

there  were  more  and  more  carriages  to  be  seen 
with  each  succeeding  month.  All  at  once,  high 
iron  railings  were  built  about  the  deserted  Potter's 
Field,  —  a  Potter's  Field  no  longer,  —  and  on  June 
of  that  year  a  proclamation  was  issued: 


"  The  corporation  of  the  city  of  New  York 
have  been  pleased  to  set  apart  a  piece  of  ground 
for  a  military  parade  on  Fourth  Street  near  Mac- 
dougal  Street,  and  have  directed  it  to  be  called 
'  Washington  Military  Parade  Ground.'  For  the 
purpose  of  honouring  its  first  occupation  as  a 
military  parade,  Colonel  Arcularis  will  order  a 
detachment  from  his  regiment  with  field  pieces 
to  parade  on  the  ground  on  the  morning  of  the 
Fourth  of  July  next  He  shall  fire  a  national 
salute  and  proclaim  the  name  of  the  parade 
ground,  with  such  ceremonies  as  he  shall  see  fit." 

This  occasion,  an  anniversary  of  American  in- 
dependence, seems  to  have  been  a  most  gorgeous 
affair,  with  the  Governor,  Mayor  and  other  offi- 
cials present,  and  a  monumental  feast  to  wind  up 
with.  The  menu  included,  among  other  dainties, 
two  oxen  roasted  whole,  two  hundred  hams 
("with  a  carver  at  each"),  and  so  many  barrels 
of  beer  that  the  chronicler  seems  not  to  have  had 
the  courage  to  record  the  precise  number! 

-*-  21  -e- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

1827  seems  to  have  seen  a  real  growth  of  so- 
cial life  around  the  Washington  Parade  Ground. 
The  New  York  Gazette  of  June  yth  advertised 
"  three-story  dwellings  in  Fourth  Street,  between 
Thompson  and  Macdougal  streets,  for  sale.  The 
front  and  rear  of  the  whole  range  is  to  be 
finished  in  the  same  style  as  the  front  of  the 
Bowery  Theatre,  and  each  to  have  a  grass  plot 
in  front  with  iron  railings." 

This  promise  of  theatrical  architecture  seems 
a  curious  inducement,  but  it  must  have  been 
effective,  for  many  exclusive  families  came — no, 
flocked, — to  live  in  the  houses! 

In  1830  there  was  a  grand  celebration  there  in 
joint  honour  of  the  anniversary  of  the  British 
evacuation  and  the  crowning  of  Louis  Philippe 
in  France.  Everybody  sang  patriotic  French  and 
American  airs,  sent  off  fireworks,  fired  salutes 
and  had  a  wildly  enthusiastic  time.  Incidentally, 
there  were  speeches  by  ex-President  Monroe  and 
the  Hon.  Samuel  Gouveneur.  Enoch  Crosby, 
who  was  the  original  of  Fenimore  Cooper's  fa- 
mous Harvey  Birch  in  "  The  Spy,"  was  present, 
and  so  was  David  Williams,  one  of  the  captors 
of  Major  Andre, — not  to  mention  about  thirty 
thousand  others! 

This  year  saw,  too,  the  founding  of  the  Uni- 
versity of  the  City  of  New  York,  on  the  east  side 

•*-  22  -C- 


CHEQUERED  HISTORY  OF  A  CITY  SQUARE 

of  the  Square, — or  rather,  the  Parade  Ground, 
as  it  was  then.  That  fine  old  educational  insti- 
tution came  close  to  having  its  cornerstones  chris- 
tened with  blood,  for  it  was  the  occasion  of  the 
well-known, — shall  we  say  the  notorious? — 
"  Stonecutters'  Riots."  The  builders  contracted 
for  work  to  be  done  by  the  convicts  of  Sing 
Sing  Prison,  and  the  city  workmen,  or  Stone- 
cutters' Guild, — already  strong  for  unions, — ob- 
jected. In  fact,  they  objected  so  strenuously  that 
the  Twenty-seventh  Regiment  (now  our  popular 
Seventh)  was  called  out,  and  stayed  under  arms 
in  the  Square  for  four  days  and  nights;  after 
which  the  disturbance  died  down. 

The  next  important  labour  demonstration  in 
the  Square  was  in  1855,  when,  during  a  period  of 
"  hard  times,"  eight  thousand  workmen  assembled 
there  with  drums  and  trumpets,  and  made 
speeches  in  the  most  approved  and  up-to-date 
agitator  style,  collecting  a  sum  of  money  which 
went  well  up  into  four  figures! 

In  1833  society  folded  its  wings  and  settled 
down  with  something  resembling  permanence 
upon  the  corner  of  the  "  Snug  Harbour  "  lands, 
which  formed  the  famous  North  Side  of  Wash- 
ington Square.  Of  all  social  and  architectural 
centres  of  New  York,  Washington  Square  North 
has  changed  least.  Progress  may  come  or  go, 

•4-23-* 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

social  streams  may  flow  upward  with  as  much 
speed,  energy  and  ambition  as  they  will;  the 
eddies  leave  one  quiet  and  lovely  pool  unstirred. 
That  fine  row  of  stately  houses  remains  the 
symbol  of  dignified  beauty  and  distinction  and 
an  aristocracy  that  is  not  old-fashioned  but 
perennial. 

Such  names  as  we  read  associated  with  the 
story  of  Washington  Square  and  its  environs! 
Names  great  in  politics  and  patriotism,  in  art  and 
literature,  in  learning  and  distinction,  in  fash- 
ion and  fame  and  architecture.  Hardly  one  of 
them  but  is  connected  with  great  position  or  great 
achievement  or  both.  Rhinelander,  Roosevelt, 
Hamilton,  Chauncey,  Wetmore,  Howland,  Suf- 
fern,  Vanderbilt,  Phelps,  Winthrop, — the  list  is 
too  long  to  permit  citing  in  full.  Three  mayors 
have  lived  there,  and  in  the  immediate  vicinity 
dwelt  such  distinguished  literary  persons  as  Bay- 
ard Taylor,  Henry  James,  George  William  Cur- 
tis, N.  P.  Willis  (Nym  Grynkle),  our  immortal 
Poe  himself,  Anne  Lynch, — poetess  and  hostess 
of  one  of  the  first  and  most  distinguished  salons 
of  America — Charles  Hoffman,  editor  of  the 
Knickerbocker,  and  so  on.  Another  centre  of 
wit  and  wisdom  was  the  house  of  Dr.  Orville 
Dewey, — whose  Unitarian  Church,  at  Broadway 
and  Waverly  Place,  was  the  subject  of  the  first 


OLDEST  BUILDING  ON  THE  SQUARE 

On  this  moment  of  writing  it  is  still  standing  on 
the  south  of  Washington  Square 


CHEQUERED  HISTORY  OF  A  CITY  SQUARE 

successful  photograph  in  this  country  by  the 
secret  process  confided  to  Morse  by  Daguerre. 

Edgar  Allan  Poe  lived  with  his  sick  young 
wife,  Virginia,  on  Carmine  Street,  and  lived  very 
uncomfortably,  too.  The  name  of  his  boarding- 
house  keeper  is  lost  to  posterity,  but  the  poet 
wrote  of  her  food :  "  I  wish  Kate  our  cat  could 
see  it.  She  would  faint." 

Poor  Poe  lived  always  somewhere  near  the 
Square.  Once  in  a  while  he  moved  away  for  a 
time,  but  he  invariably  gravitated  back  to  it  and 
to  his  old  friends  there.  It  was  in  Carmine  Street 
that  he  wrote  his  "  Arthur  Gordon  Pym,"  with 
Gowans  the  publisher  for  a  fellow  lodger;  it  was 
on  Sixth  Avenue  and  Waverly  Place  that  he 
created  "  Ligeia  "  and  "  The  Fall  of  the  House 
of  Usher."  After  Virginia's  death,  he  took  a 
room  just  off  the  Square,  and  wrote  the  "  Imp  of 
the  Perverse,"  with  her  picture  (it  is  said)  above 
his  desk.  It  was  at  these  quarters  that  Lowell 
called  on  him,  and  found  him,  alas!  "not  him- 
self that  day."  The  old  Square  has  no  stranger 
nor  sadder  shade  to  haunt  it  than  that  of  the 
brilliant  and  melancholy  genius  who  in  life  loved 
it  so  well. 

Poe's  friend  Willis  published  many  of  his 
stories  and  articles  in  the  Sun,  still  a  newcomer  in 
the  old  field  of  journalism.  Willis  has  his  own 

-*-  25  -*- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE      • 

connection  with  the  tale  of  the  Square,  though 
not  a  very  glorious  one.  The  town  buzzed  for 
days  with  talk  of  the  sensational  interview  be- 
tween Nym  Crinkle  and  Edwin  Forrest,  the  actor. 
Mr.  Willis  made  some  comments  on  Forrest's 
divorce,  in  an  editorial,  and  that  player,  so  well 
adored  by  the  American  public,  took  him  by  the 
coat  collar  in  Washington  Square  and  exercised 
his  stage-trained  muscles  by  giving  him  a  thor- 
ough and  spectacular  thrashing. 

Somewhere  in  that  neighbourhood,  much  ear- 
lier, another  editor,  William  Coleman,  founder 
of  the  Evening  Post,  and  Jeremiah  Thompson, 
Collector  of  the  Port,  fought  a  duel  to  the  death. 
It  was  indeed  to  the  death,  for  Thompson  was 
wounded  fatally.  But  duels  were  common  enough 
in  those  days;  we  feel  still  the  thrill  of  indigna- 
tion roused  by  the  shooting  of  Alexander  Hamil- 
ton by  Burr. 

The  old  University  of  New  York — where  Pro- 
fessor Morse  conducted  his  great  experiments  in 
telegraphy,  where  Samuel  Colt  in  his  tower  work- 
room perfected  his  revolver,  where  the  Historical 
Society  of  New  York  was  first  established  and 
where  many  of  our  most  distinguished  citizens 
received  their  education — was  never  a  financial 
success.  For  a  time  they  tried  to  make  it  pay  by 
taking  tenants — young  students,  and  bachelors  who 

-*-  26  -*- 


CHEQUERED  HISTORY  OF  A  CITY  SQUARE 

wished  seclusion  for  writing  or  research.  Then, 
in  the  course  of  time,  it  was  moved  away  to  the 
banks  of  the  Hudson.  On  the  site  now  stands  a 
modern  structure,  where,  to  be  sure,  a  few  of  the 
old  University  departments  are  still  conducted, 
but  which  is  chiefly  celebrated  as  being  the  first 
all-bachelor  apartment  house  erected  in  town.  It 
is  appropriately  called  the  "Benedick,"  after  a 
certain  young  man  who  scoffed  at  matrimony, — 
and  incidentally  got  married! 

And  a  few  of  the  families  stay  beneath  the 
roofs  their  forefathers  built,  watching,  as  they 
watched,  the  same  quiet  trees  and  lawns  and  paths 
of  the  most  charming  square  in  all  New  York: 
De  Forest,  Rhinelander,  Delano,  Stewart,  De 
Rham,  Gould,  Wynkoop,  Tailer,  Guinness,  Claf- 
lin,  Booth,  Darlington,  Gregory,  Hoyt,  Schell, 
Shattuck,  Weekes, — these,  and  others  are  still  the 
names  of  the  residents  of  Washington  Square 
North.  Father  Knickerbocker,  coming  to  smoke 
his  pipe  here,  will  be  in  good  company,  you 
perceive! 

The  recollections  of  many  living  persons  who 
recall  the  old  Square  and  other  parts  of  early 
New  York,  bring  forcibly  to  us  the  realisation  of 
the  speed  with  which  this  country  of  ours  has 
evolved  itself.  In  one  man's  lifetime,  New  York 
has  grown  from  a  small  town  just  out  of  its 

-*-  27  -»- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

Colonial  swaddling  clothes  to  the  greatest  city  in 
the  world.  These  reminiscences,  then,  are  but 
memories  of  yesterday  or  the  day  before.  We 
do  not  have  to  take  them  from  history  books  but 
from  the  diaries  of  men  and  women  who  are 
still  wide-eyed  with  wonder  at  the  changes  which 
have  come  to  their  city! 

"  The  town  was  filled  with  beautiful  trees," 
says  one  man  (who  remembers  Commodore  Van- 
derbilt,  with  the  splendid  horses,  the  fine  manner 
and  the  unexampled  profane  eloquence),  "but 
the  pavements  were  very  dirty.  Places  like  St. 
John's  Park  and  Abingdon  Square  were  quiet 
and  sweet  and  secluded.  Where  West  Fourth 
Street  and  West  Eleventh  Street  met  it  was  so 
still  you  could  almost  hear  the  grass  grow  be- 
tween the  cobblestones!  Everything  near  the 
Square  was  extremely  exclusive  and  fashionable. 
Washington  and  Waverly  places  were  very  aristo- 
cratic indeed." 

Waverly  Place,  by  the  bye,  got  its  name 
through  a  petition  of  select  booklovers  who  lived 
thereabouts  and  adored  Sir  Walter  Scott.  It  speaks 
well  for  the  good  taste  of  the  aristocratic  quarter, 
even  though  the  tribute  came  a  bit  late, — about 
twenty  years  after  "  Waverley  "  was  published! 

The  celebrated  north  side  of  the  Square  was 
called,  by  the  society  people,  "  The  Row,"  and 


CHEQUERED  HISTORY  OF  A  CITY  SQUARE 

was,  of  course,  the  last  word  in  social  prestige. 
But,  for  all  its  lofty  place  in  the  veneration  of 
the  world  and  his  wife,  its  ways  were  enchant- 
ingly  simple,  if  we  may  trust  the  tales  we  hear. 
In  the  Square  stood  the  "  Pump  With  The  Long 
Handle,"  and  thence  was  every  bucketful  of 
washing  water  drawn  by  the  gilt-edged  servants 
of  the  gilt-edged  "  Row"!  The  water  was,  it  is 
said,  particularly  soft, — rain,  doubtless, — and 
day  by  day  the  pails  were  carried  to  the  main 
pump  to  be  filled! 

When  next  you  look  at  the  motor  stages  gliding 
past  the  Arch,  try,  just  for  a  moment,  to  visualise 
the  old  stages  which  ran  on  Fifth  Avenue  from 
Fulton  Ferry  uptown.  They  were  very  elaborate, 
we  are  told,  and  an  immense  improvement  on  the 
old  Greenwich  stagecoaches,  and  the  great  lum- 
bering vehicles  that  conveyed  travellers  along  the 
Post  Road.  These  new  Fifth  Avenue  stages  were 
brightly  painted:  the  body  of  the  coach  was  navy 
blue,  the  running  gear  white,  striped  with  red, 
and  the  lettering  and  decorations  of  gold.  A 
strap  which  enabled  the  driver  to  open  and  close 
the  door  without  descending  from  his  seat  was 
looked  upon  as  an  impressive  innovation!  Inside, 
there  were  oil  paintings  on  panels,  small  candles 
in  glass  boxes  for  illumination,  and  straw  on  the 
floor  to  keep  your  feet  warm.  These  luxuries 

-*-  29  -*- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

justified  the  high  rate  which  was  charged.    The 
fare  was  ten  cents! 

In  very  heavy  snowstorms  the  stages  were  apt 
to  get  stalled,  so  that  a  few  stage  sleighs  were 
run  in  midwinter,  but  only  in  the  city  proper. 
Their  farthest  uptown  terminal  was  at  Four- 
teenth Street,  so  they  were  not  much  help  to 
suburbanites!  . 

No  single  article,  or  chapter,  can  even  attempt 
to  encompass  the  complete  story  of  Washington 
Square.  Covering  the  entire  period  of  the  city's 
history,  passing  through  startling  changes  and 
transformations,  the  scene  of  great  happenings, 
the  background  of  illustrious  or  curious  lives,— 
it  is  probably  more  typical  of  the  vertiginous  de- 
velopment of  New  York  than  any  single  section. 
The  Indians,  the  Dutch,  the  English,  the  Colo- 
nials, the  Revolutionists,  the  New  Americans,  the 
shining  lights  of  art,  science,  fashion  and  the  state, 
have  all  passed  through  it,  confidently  and  at 
home.  The  dead  have  slept  there;  wicked  men 
have  died  there  and  great  ones  been  honoured. 
Belles  and  beaux  have  minced  on  their  way  be- 
neath the  thick  green  branches, — branches  that 
have  also  quivered  to  the  sound  of  artillery  fire 
saluting  a  mighty  nation  newborn.  Nothing  that 
a  city  can  feel  or  suffer  or  delight  in  has  escaped 
Washington  Square.  Everything  of  valour  and 


CHEQUERED  HISTORY  OF  A  CITY  SQUARE 

tragedy  and  gallantry  and  high  hope — that  go 
to  making  a  great  town  as  much  and  more  than 
its  bricks  and  mortar — are  in  that  nine  and  three- 
quarters  acres  that  make  up  the  very  heart  and 
soul  of  New  York. 

The  lovely  Arch  first  designed  by  Stanford 
White  and  erected  by  William  Rhinelander  Stew- 
art's public-spirited  efforts,  on  April  30,  1889, 
was  in  honour  of  the  centennial  anniversary  of 
Washington's  inauguration;  it  was  so  beautiful 
that,  happily,  it  was  later  made  permanent  in 
marble,  and  in  all  the  town  there  could  have  been 
found  no  more  fitting  place  for  it. 

In  every  really  great  city  there  is  one  place 
which  is,  in  a  sense,  sacred  from  the  profanation 
of  too  utilitarian  progress.  However  commer- 
cialised Paris  might  become,  you  could  not 
cheapen  the  environs  of  Notre  Dame!  Whatever 
happens  to  us,  let  us  hope  that  we  will  always 
keep  Washington  Square  as  it  is  today, — our 
little  and  dear  bit  of  fine,  concrete  history,  the 
one  perfect  page  of  our  old,  immortal  New  York! 

Father  Knickerbocker,  may  you  dream  well! 


The  Green  Village 


CHAPTER  II 

The  Green  Village 

God  tempers  the  wind  to  the  shorn  lamb  down  Greenwich 
way! — THOMAS  JANVIER. 


ID  you  know  that  "  Greenwich  Village  " 
is  tautology?    That  region  known  affec- 
tionately as  "  Our  Village "  is  Green- 
wich, pure  and  simple,  and  here  is  the 
"  why  "  of  that  statement. 

The  word  <wich  is  derived  from  the  Saxon 
wick,  and  originally  had  birth  in  the  Latin 
vicus,  which  means  village.  Hence,  Greenwich 
means  sinply  the  Green  Village,  and  was  evi- 
dently a  term  describing  one  of  the  first  small 
country  hamlets  on  Manhattan.  Captain  Sir 
Peter  Warren,  on  whom  be  peace  and  benedic- 
tions, is  usually  given  the  credit  of  having  given 
Greenwich  its  name,  the  historians  insisting  that 
it  was  the  name  of  his  own  estate,  and  simply 
got  stretched  to  take  in  the  surrounding  country- 
side. This  seems  rather  a  stupid  theory.  The 
Warrens  were  undoubtedly  among  the  earliest 
representative  residents  in  the  little  country  resort, 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

but  by  no  stretch  of  imagination  could  any  private 
estate,  however  ample  or  important,  be  called  a 
village.  But  Greenwich  was  the  third  name  to 
be  applied  to  this  particular  locality. 

Once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  little  settlement 
of  Indians — the  tribe  was  called  the  Sappocanicon 
or  Sappokanikee.  Like  other  redmen  they  had 
a  gift  for  picking  out  good  locations  for  their 
huts  or  wigwams — whatever  they  were  in  those 
days.  On  this  island  of  Manhattan  they  had 
appropriated  the  finest,  richest,  yet  driest  piece 
of  ground  to  be  had.  There  were  woods  and 
fields;  there  was  a  marvellous  trout  stream 
(Minetta  Water)  ;  there  was  a  game  preserve, 
second  to  none,  presented  to  them  by  the  Great 
Spirit  (in  the  vicinity  of  Washington  Square). 
There  was  pure  air  from  the  river,  and  a  fine 
loamy  soil  for  their  humble  crops.  It  was  good 
medicine. 

They  adopted  it  far  back  in  those  beginnings 
of  American  history  of  which  we  know  nothing. 
When  you  go  down  to  the  waterfront  to  see  the 
ships  steam  away,  you  are  probably  standing 
where  the  braves  and  squaws  had  their  forest 
home  overlooking  the  river. 

But  their  day  passed.  Peter  Minuit — who 
really  was  a  worth-while  man  and  deserved  to 
be  remembered  for  something  besides  his  thrifty 


THE  GREEN  VILLAGE 

deal  in  buying  Manhattan  for  twenty-four  dollars 
—cast  an  eye  over  the  new  territory  with  a  view 
to  developing  certain  spots  for  the  Dutch  West 
India  Company.  He  staked  out  the  Sappokani- 
can  village  tentatively,  but  it  was  not  really  appro- 
priated until  Wouter  Van  Twiller  succeeded 
Minuit  as  director  general  and  Governor  of  the 
island. 

Van  Twiller  was  not  one  of  the  Hollanders' 
successes.  R.  R.  Wilson  says  of  him,  "  Bibulous, 
slow-witted  and  loose  of  life  and  morals,  Van 
Twiller  proved  wholly  unequal  to  the  task  in 
hand."  Representing  the  West  India  Company, 
he  nevertheless  held  nefarious  commerce  with 
the  Indians — it  is  even  reported  that  he  sold 
them  guns  and  powder  in  violation  of  express 
regulations — and  certainly  he  was  first  and  for- 
ever on  the  make.  But  before  he  was  removed 
from  office  (because  of  these  and  other  indis- 
cretions) he  had  founded  Our  Village, — so  may 
his  soul  rest  in  peace! 

Not  that  he  intended  to  do  posterity  a  favour. 
He  never  wanted  to  help  anyone  but  himself. 
But,  in  the  first  year  of  his  disastrous  governor- 
ship, he  got  the  itch  of  tobacco  speculation.  He 
knew  there  was  money  in  it. 

He,  too,  looked  over  the  Indian  village  above 
the  river,  and  he,  too,  found  it  good.  He  made 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

it  the  Company's  Farm  Number  3,  but  he  did 
not  work  it  for  the  company.  Not  he!  He 
worked  it  for  Wouter  Van  Twiller,  as  he  worked 
everything  else.  He  eliminated  the  Indians  by 
degrees,  whether  by  strategy  or  force  history  does 
not  say.  R.  R.  Wilson  says  it  was  "  rum  and  war- 
fare." Anyway,  they  departed  to  parts  unknown 
and  Van  Twiller  built  a  farm  and  started  an 
immense  tobacco  plantation.  As  the  tobacco 
grew  and  flourished  the  place  became  known  by 
the  Dutch  as  the  Bossen  Bouwerie — the  farm  in 
the  woods.  It  was  one  of  the  very  earliest  white 
settlements  on  the  whole  island.  R.  R.  Wilson 
says,  "  Rum  and  warfare  had  before  this  made  an 
end  of  the  Indian  village  of  the  first  days.  Its 
Dutch  successor,  however,  grew  from  year  to 
year." 

The  names  of  these  first  Dutch  residents  of  the 
Bossen  Bouwerie — or  Sappocanican  as  it  was  still 
occasionally  called — are  not  known,  but  it  is  cer- 
tain that  there  were  a  number  of  them.  In  the 
epoch  of  Peter  Stuyvesant  someone  mentioned 
the  houses  at  "  Sappokanigan,"  and  in  1679,  after 
the  British  had  arrived,  a  descriptive  little  entry 
was  made  in  one  of  those  delightfully  detailed 
journals  of  an  older  and  more  precise  generation 
than  ours.  The  diary  was  the  one  kept  by  the 
Labadist  missionaries — Dankers  and  Sluyter — 


JEFFERSON   MARKET 

The   old  clock  that  has  told  the   hours  of  justice 
for  Greenwich  Village  during  many  years 


THE  GREEN  VILLAGE 

and  was  only  recently  unearthed  by  Henry  Mur- 
phy at  The  Hague.    It  runs  as  follows: 

"  We  crossed  over  the  island,  which  takes 
about  three-quarters  of  an  hour  to  do,  and  came 
to  the  North  River,  which  we  followed  a  little 
within  the  woods  to  Sapokanikee.  Gerrit  having 
a  sister  and  friends,  we  rested  ourselves  and 
drank  some  good  beer,  which  refreshed  us.  We 
continued  along  the  shore  to  the  city,  where  we 
arrived  at  an  early  hour  in  the  evening,  very  much 
fatigued,  having  walked  this  day  about  forty 
miles.  I  must  add,  in  passing  through  this  island 
we  sometimes  encountered  such  a  sweet  smell  in 
the  air  that  we  stood  still;  because  we  did  not 
know  what  it  was  we  were  meeting." 

It  is  odd  that  the  Dutch  names  in  Greenwich 
have  died  out  as  much  as  they  have.  There  is 
something  in  Holland  blood  which  has  a  way 
of  persisting.  They — the  old  Manhattan  Dutch 
anyway — had  a  certain  stubborn  individuality  of 
their  own,  which  refused  to  give  way  or  com- 
promise. I  have  always  felt  that  the  way  the 
Dutch  ladies  used  to  drink  their  tea  was  a  most 
illuminating  sidelight  upon  their  racial  char- 
acteristics. They  served  the  dish  of  tea  and  the 
sugar  separately — the  latter  in  a  large  and  awk- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

ward  hunk  from  which  they  crunched  out  bites 
as  they  needed  them.  Now  I  take  it  that  there 
was  no  particular  reason  for  this  inconvenient  and 
labourious  method,  except  that  it  was  their  way. 
They  were  used  to  doing  things  in  an  original  and 
an  unyielding  fashion.  I  believe  a  real  old-world 
Mevrouw  would  have  looked  as  coldly  askance 
upon  the  innovation  of  putting  the  sugar  in  the 
tea,  as  she  looked  at  the  pernicious  ingress  of 
the  devil-endowed  Church  of  England. 

In  1664  came  the  English  rule  in  what  had 
been  New  Amsterdam  and  with  it  British  set- 
tlers and  a  new  language.  So  the  Bossen  Bouwerie 
became  Green  Wich  (later  clipped  in  pronuncia- 
tion to  Grinnich),  the  Green  Village,  and  a 
peaceful,  remote  little  settlement  it  remained  for 
many  a  long  year. 

Now  came  the  rich  and  great  in  search  of 
country  air,  health,  rest  or  change  of  scene. 
Colonial  society  was  not  so  different  from  twen- 
tieth century  society.  They,  too,  demanded  occa- 
sional doses  of  rustic  scenery  and  rest  cures;  and 
they  began  to  drift  out  to  the  green  little  hamlet 
on  the  Hudson  where  they  could  commune  with 
nature  and  fortify  themselves  with  that  incom- 
parable air.  Captain  Warren,  Oliver  de  Lancey, 
James  Jauncey,  William  Bayard  and  Abraham 
Mortier  all  acquired  estates  there.  The  road  to 

-*-  40  -?- 


THE  GREEN  VILLAGE 

Greenwich  was  by  far  the  most  fashionable  of 
all  the  Colonial  drives. 

Greenwich  Road  ran  along  the  line  of  our 
present  Greenwich  Street,  and  gave  one  a  lovely 
view  of  the  water.  At  Lispenard's  Salt  Meadows 
(Canal  Street)  it  ran  upon  a  causeway,  but  the 
marshes  overflowed  in  the  spring,  and  soon  they 
opened  another  road  known  as  the  Inland  Road 
to  Greenwich.  This  second  lane  ran  from  the 
Post  Road  or  Bowery,  westward  over  the  fields 
and  passing  close  to  the  site  of  the  Potter's  Field. 
This,  I  understand,  was  the  favourite  drive  of  the 
fashionable  world  a  century  and  a  half  ago. 

If  anyone  wants  to  really  taste  the  savour  of  old 
New  York,  let  him  read  the  journals  of  those  by- 
gone days.  Better  than  any  history  books  will 
they  make  the  past  live  again,  make  it  real  to 
you  with  its  odd  perfumes,  and  its  stilted  manner- 
isms, and  its  high-hearted  courage  and  gallantry. 

I  know  of  no  quainter  literature  than  is  to  be 
found  in  these  very  old  New  York  papers.  The 
advertisements  alone  are  pregnant  with  sugges- 
tions of  the  past — colour,  atmosphere,  the  subtle 
fragrance  and  flavour  of  other  days.  We  read 
that  James  Anderson  of  Broadway  has  just  arrived 
from  London  "  in  the  brig  Betsy  "  with  a  load  of 
"  the  best  finished  boot  legs."  Another  gentle- 
man urges  people  to  inspect  his  "  crooked  tor- 

•4-41-f- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

toise-shell  combs  for  ladies  and  gentlemen's  hair, 
his  vegetable  face  powder — his  nervous  essence 
for  the  toothache,  his  bergamot,  lemon,  lavendar 
and  thyme  "  —and  other  commodities. 

Sales  were  advertised  of  such  mixed  assort- 
ments as  the  following: 

"For  Sale: 

"  A  negro  wench. 

"  An  elegant  chariot. 

"  Geneva  in  pipes,  cloves,  steel,  heart  and  club, 
scale  beams,  cotton  in  bales,  Tenerisse  wines  in 
pipes,  and  quarter  casks." 

In  several  old  papers  you  find  that  two  camels 
were  to  be  seen  in  a  certain  stable,  at  a  shilling 
a  head  for  adults  and  sixpence  for  children. 
The  camels  were  a  novelty  and  highly 
popular. 

Take  this  item,  for  instance,  from  the  good  old 
Daily  Advertiser,  chronicler  of  the  big  and  little 
things  of  Manhattan's  early  days.  It  gives  a  fine 
example  of  old-style  journalism.  Observe  the 
ingenuity  with  which  a  page  of  narrative  is 
twisted  into  the  first  sentence.  The  last  two  are 
the  more  startling  in  their  abrupt  fashion  of 
leaving  the  reader  high  and  dry.  The  cow  is 
starred;  obviously  the  man  appears  a  minor  actor: 

-*-  42  -*- 


THE  GREEN  VILLAGE 

"  On  Thursday  afternoon,  as  a  man  of  genteel 
appearance  was  passing  along  Beekman  Street, 
he  was  attacked  by  a  cow,  and  notwithstanding 
his  efforts  to  avoid  her,  and  the  means  he  used 
to  beat  her  off,  we  are  sorry  to  say  that  he  was 
so  much  injured  as  to  be  taken  up  dead.  The 
cow  was  afterward  killed  in  William  Street.  We 
have  not  been  able  to  learn  the  name  of  the 
deceased  "!  ! 

Some  of  the  items  contain  genuine  if  uncon- 
scious humour, — such  as  the  record  of  the  ques- 
tion brought  up  before  the  City  Council: 
"  Whether  attorneys  are  thought  useful  to  plead 
in  courts  or  not?  Answer:  "  It  is  thought 
not." 

Then  there  is  the  proclamation  that  if  any  In- 
dian was  found  drunk  in  any  street,  and  it  could 
not  be  ascertained  where  he  got  the  liquor,  the 
whole  street  was  to  be  fined! 

Among  the  earlier  laws  duly  published  in  the 
press  was  that  hogs  should  not  be  "  suffered  to 
goe  or  range  in  any  of  the  streets  or  lands."  In 
1684  eight  watchmen  were  appointed  at  twelve- 
pence  a  night.  But  read  them  for  yourselves,— 
they  are  worth  the  trouble  you  will  have  to  find 
them! 

There  were  many  queer  trades  in  New  York, 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

and  all  of  them,  or  nearly  all,  advertised  in  the 
daily  journals.  In  column  on  column  of  yellowed 
paper  and  quaint  f-for-s  printing,  we  read  ex- 
hortations to  employ  this  or  that  man,  most  of 
them  included  in  the  picturesque  verse  whose 
author  I  do  not  know: 

"Plumbers,  founders,  dyers,  tanners,  shavers, 
Sweepers,  clerks  and  criers,  jewelers,  engravers, 
Clothiers,    drapers,    players,    cartmen,    hatters, 

nailers, 
Gangers,     sealers,    weighers,     carpenters,     and 

sailors! }} 

And  read  the  long-winded,  yet  really  beautiful 
old  obituary  notices;  the  simple  news  of  battles 
and  high  deeds;  the  fiery,  yet  pedantic,  political 
editorials.  Oh,  no  one  knows  anything  about 
Father  Knickerbocker  until  he  has  read  the  same 
newspapers  that  Father  Knickerbocker  himself 
read, — when  he  wasn't  writing  for  them! 

The  Revolution  had  passed  and  Greenwich  was 
a  real  village,  and  growing  with  astonishing 
rapidity,  even  in  that  day  of  lightning  develop- 
ment. 

In  1807  they  started  to  do  New  York  over,  and 
they  kept  at  it  faithfully  and  successfully  until 
1811.  Then  began  the  laying  out  of  streets  ac- 


THE  GREEN  VILLAGE 

cording  to  numbers  and  fixed  measurements,  in- 
stead of  by  picturesque  names  and  erratic  cow- 
path  meanderings.  Gouverneur  Morris,  Simeon 
de  Witt  and  John  Rutherford  were  appointed 
by  the  city  to  take  charge  of  this  task,  and,  as  one 
writer  points  out,  they  did  not  do  it  as  badly  as 
they  might  have  done,  nor  as  we  are  inclined  to 
think  they  did  when  we  try  to  find  our  way 
around  lower  New  York  today.  The  truth  is  that 
Greenwich  had  grown  up,  and  always  has  grown 
up  ever  since,  in  an  entirely  independent  and 
obstinate  fashion  all  its  own.  There  was  not  the 
slightest  use  in  trying  to  make  its  twisty  curli- 
cue streets  conform  to  any  engineering  plan  on 
earth;  so  those  sensible  old-time  folk  didn't  try. 
William  Bridges,  architect  and  city  surveyor, 
entrusted  with  the  job,  mentions  "  that  part  of 
the  city  which  lies  south  of  Greenwich  Lane  and 
North  Street,  and  which  was  not  included  in 
the  powers  vested  in  the  commissioners."  And 
so  Our  Village  remains  itself,  utterly  and  arro- 
gantly untouched  by  the  confining  orthodoxy  of 
the  rest  of  the  town! 

...  The  passing  of  the  British  rule  was  the  signal 
for  variously  radical  democratic  changes,  not  only 
in  customs  and  forms,  but  in  nomenclature.  After 
they  had  melted  up  a  leaden  statue  of  King 
George  and  made  it  into  American  bullets,  they 

•4-45-* 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

went  about  abolishing  every  blessed  thing  in  the 
city  which  could  remind  them  of  England  and 
English  ways.  The  names  of  the  streets  were, 
of  course,  nearly  all  intrinsically  English.  A 
few  of  the  old  Dutch  names  persisted — Bleecker, 
Vandam,  and  so  on — but  nearly  every  part  of 
the  town  was  named  for  the  extolling  of  Britain 
and  British  royalty.  Away  then,  said  New 
York,  with  the  sign  manuals  of  crowns  and 
autocracy! 

In  1783,  when  the  English  evacuated  Manhat- 
tan, the  Advertiser  published :  "  May  the  remem- 
brance of  this  DAY  be  a  lesson  to  princes!  "  and 
in  this  spirit  was  the  last  vestige  of  imperial  rule 
systematically  expunged  from  the  city.  Crown 
Street  was  a  red  rag  to  the  bull  of  Young  Amer- 
ica; it  was  called  Liberty,  and  thus  became 
innocuous!  Queen  Street  doffed  its  ermine  and 
became  homely  and  humble,  under  the  name  of 
Cedar.  King  Street  was  now  Pine.  King  George 
Street  was  abolished  altogether,  according  to  the 
chronicles.  One  is  curious  to  know  what  they 
did  with  it;  it  must  be  difficult  to  lose  a  street 
entirely!  A  few  streets  and  squares  named  for 
individual  Englishmen  who  had  been  friendly 
to  America  were  left  unmolested — Abingdon 
Square,  and  also  Chatham  Street,  which  had  been 
given  its  appellation  in  honour  of  the  ever  popu- 

-*-  46  -»• 


THE  GREEN  VILLAGE 

lar  William  Pitt,  Earl  of  Chatham;  Chatham 
Square,  indeed,  exists  to  this  day. 

Greenwich  was  at  all  times  a  resort  for  those 
who  could  afford  it,  an  exclusive  and  beautiful 
country  region  where  anyone  with  a  full  purse 
could  go  to  court  health  and  rest  among  the  trees 
and  fields  and  river  breezes.  It  was  destined  to 
become  the  most  popular,  flourishing  and  pros- 
perous little  village  that  ever  grew  up  over  night. 
Those  marvellously  healthy  qualities  as  to  loca- 
tion and  air,  that  fine,  sandy  soil,  made  it  a 
haven,  indeed,  to  people  who  were  afraid  of  sick- 
ness. And  in  those  days  the  island  was  contin- 
ually swept  by  epidemics — violent,  far-reaching, 
and  registering  alarming  mortality.  Greenwich 
seemed  to  be  the  only  place  where  one  didn't  get 
yellow  fever  or  anything  else,  and  terrorised  citi- 
zens began  to  rush  out  there  in  droves,  not  only 
with  their  bags  and  their  baggage,  and  their 
wives  and  children,  but  with  their  business 
too! 

John  Lambert,  an  English  visitor  to  America 
in  1807,  writes: 

"  As  soon  as  yellow  fever  makes  its  appearance, 
the  inhabitants  shut  up  their  shops  and  fly  from 
their  homes  into  the  country.  Those  who  cannot 
go  far  on  account  of  business,  remove  to  Green- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

wich,  situate  on  the  border  of  the  Hudson  about 
two  or  three  miles  from  town.  The  banks  and 
other  public  offices  also  remove  their  business  to 
this  place  and  markets  are  regularly  established 
for  the  supply  of  the  inhabitants." 

Things  went  so  fast  for  Greenwich  during  the 
biggest  of  the  yellow  fever  "  booms  "  that  one  old 
chronicler  (whose  name  I  regret  not  being  able 
to  find)  declares  he  "saw  the  corn  growing  on 
the  corner  of  Hammond  Street  (West  Eleventh) 
on  a  Saturday  morning,  and  by  the  next  Monday 
Niblo  and  Sykes  had  built  a  house  there  for  three 
hundred  boarders!" 

Devoe  says  that: 

"The  visits  of  yellow  fever  in  1798,  1799, 
1803  and  1805  tended  much  to  increase  the  for- 
mation of  a  village  near  the  Spring  Street  Mar- 
ket and  one  also  near  the  State  Prison;  but  the 
fever  of  1882  built  up  many  streets  with  numerous 
wooden  buildings  for  the  uses  of  the  merchants, 
banks  (from  which  Bank  Street  took  its  name), 
offices,  etc." 

"  c  The  town  fairly  exploded,'  "  quotes  Maca- 
tamney, — from  what  writer  he  does  not  state,— 


THE  GREEN  VILLAGE 

"  '  and  went  flying  beyond  its  bonds   as  though 
the  pestilence  had  been  a  burning  mine.' ' 

It  was  in  1822  that  Hardie  wrote: 

"  Saturday,  the  24th  of  August  our  city  pre- 
sented the  appearance  of  a  town  beseiged.  From 
daybreak  till  night  one  line  of  carts,  containing 
boxes,  merchandise  and  effects,  was  seen  moving 
towards  Greenwich  Village  and  the  upper  parts 
of  the  city.  Carriages  and  hacks,  wagons  and 
horsemen,  were  scouring  the  streets  and  filling 
the  roads;  persons  with  anxiety  strongly  marked 
on  their  countenances,  and  with  hurried  gait, 
were  hustling  through  the  streets.  Temporary 
stores  and  offices  were  erecting,  and  even  on  the 
ensuing  day  (Sunday)  carts  were  in  motion,  and 
the  saw  and  hammer  busily  at  work.  Within  a 
few  days  thereafter  the  custom  house,  the  post 
office,  the  banks,  the  insurance  offices  and  the 
printers  of  newspapers  located  themselves  in  the 
village  or  in  the  upper  part  of  Broadway,  where 
they  were  free  from  the  impending  danger;  and 
these  places  almost  instantaneously  became  the 
seat  of  the  immense  business  usually  carried  on 
in  the  great  metropolis." 

Bank  Street  got  its  name  in  this  way,  the  city 
banks  transferring  their  business  thither  literally 
overnight,  ready  to  do  business  in  the  morning. 

•+-49H- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

Miss  Euphemia  M.  Olcott  in  her  delightful 
recollections  of  the  past  in  New  York,  gives  us 
some  charming  snapshots  of  a  still  later  Green- 
wich as  she  got  them  from  her  mother  who  was 
born  in  1819. 

"  She  often  visited  in  Greenwich  Village,  both 
at  her  grandfather's  and  at  the  house  of  Mr. 
Abraham  Van  Nest,  which  had  been  built  and 
originally  occupied  by  Sir  Peter  Warren.  But 
she  never  thought  of  going  so  far  for  less  than  a 
week!  [She  lived  at  Fulton  and  Nassau  streets.] 
There  was  a  city  conveyance  for  part  of  the  way, 
and  then  the  old  Greenwich  stage  enabled  them 
to  complete  the  long  journey.  This  ran  several 
times  a  day,  and  when  my  mother  committed  her 
hymn: 

'Hasten,  sinner,  to  be  wise, 

Ere  this  evening's  stage  be  run ' 
she  told  us  that  for  some  years  it  never  occurred 
to  her  that  it  could  mean  anything  in  the  world 
but  the  Greenwich  stage." 

In  further  quoting  her  mother,  she  tells  of  Sir 
Peter's  house  itself — then  Mr.  Van  Nest's — as  a 
square  frame  residence,  with  gardens  both  of 
flowers  and  vegetables,  stables  and  numbers  of 
cows,  chickens,  pigeons  and  peacocks.  In  the 

•*-  50-*- 


THE  GREEN  VILLAGE 

huge  hall  that  ran  through  the  house  were  ma- 
hogany tables  loaded  with  silver  baskets  of  fresh- 
made  cake,  and  attended  by  negroes. 

In  our  next  chapter  we  are  going  back  to  meet 
this  house  a  bit  more  intimately,  and  find  out 
something  of  those  who  built  it  and  lived  in  it, 
that  fine  gentleman,  Sir  Peter  Warren  and  his 
beautiful  lady, — Susannah. 

But  let  us  not  forget. 

Greenwich  was  not  exclusively  a  settlement  of 
the  rich  and  great  nor  even  solely  a  health  re- 
sort and  refuge.  There  were,  besides  the  fine 
estates  and  the  mushroom  business  sections,  two 
humbler  off-shoots:  Upper  and  Lower  Green- 
wich. The  first  was  the  Skinner  Road — now 
Christopher  Street;  the  second  lay  at  the  foot  of 
Brannan  Street — now  Spring.  To  the  Upper 
Greenwich  in  1796  came  a  distinction  which 
would  seem  to  have  been  of  doubtful  advantage, — 
the  erection  of  the  New  York  State  Prison.  It 
stood  on  Amos  Street,  now  our  Tenth,  close  to 
the  river  and  was  an  imposing  structure  for  its 
time — two  hundred  feet  in  length  with  big  wings, 
and  a  stone-wall  enclosure  twenty  feet  in  height. 

Strange  to  say  the  Greenwichers  did  not  object 
to  the  prison.  They  were  quite  proud  of  it,  and 
seemed  to  consider  it  rather  as  an  acquisition  than 
a  plague  spot.  No  other  village  had  a  State 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

Prison  to  show  to  visitors;  Greenwich  held   its 
head  haughtily  in  consequence. 

A  hotel  keeper  in  1811  put  this  "ad."  in  the 
Columbia: 

11  A  few  gentlemen  may  be  accommodated  with 
board  and  lodging  at  this  pleasant  and  healthy 
situation,  a  few  doors  from  the  State  Prison.  The 
Greenwich  stage  passes  from  this  to  the  Federal 
Hall  and  returns  five  times  a  day." 

Janvier  says  that  the  prison  at  Greenwich  was 
a  "  highly  volcanic  institution."  They  certainly 
seemed  never  out  of  trouble  there.  Behind  its 
walls  battle,  murder  and  sudden  death  seemed  the 
milder  diversions.  Mutiny  was  a  habit,  and  they 
had  a  way  of  burning  up  parts  of  the  building 
when  annoyed.  On  one  occasion  they  shut  up  all 
their  keepers  in  one  of  the  wings  before  setting 
fire  to  it,  but  according  to  the  Chronicle  "  one 
more  humane  than  the  rest  released  them  before 
it  was  consumed." 

Hugh  Macatamney  declares  that  these  mutinies 
were  caused  by  terrible  brutality  toward  the  pris- 
oners. It  is  true  that  no  one  was  hanged  in  the 
jail  itself,  the  Potter's  Field  being  more  public  and 
also  more  convenient,  all  things  considered,  but 
the  punishments  in  this  New  York  Bridewell  were 

-*-  52  -*- 


THE  GREEN  VILLAGE 

severe  in  the  extreme.  Those  were  the  days  of 
whippings  and  the  treadmill, — a  viciously  brutal 
invention, — of  bread  and  water  and  dark  cells 
and  the  rest  of  the  barbarities  which  society  hit 
upon  with  such  singular  perversity  as  a  means 
of  humanising  its  derelicts.  The  prison  record  of 
Smith,  the  "  revengeful  desperado "  who  spent 
half  a  year  in  solitary  confinement,  is  probably 
of  as  mild  a  punishment  as  was  ever  inflicted 
there. 

In  the  grim  history  of  the  penitentiary  there  is 
one  gleam  of  humour.  Mr.  Macatamney  tells  it 
so  well  that  we  quote  his  own  words: 

"A  story  is  told  of  an  inmate  of  Greenwich 
Prison  who  had  been  sentenced  to  die  on  the 
gallows,  but  at  the  last  moment,  through  the  in- 
fluence of  the  Society  of  Friends,  had  his  sen- 
tence commuted  to  life  imprisonment,  and  was 
placed  in  charge  of  the  shoe  shop  in  the  prison. 
The  Quakers  worked  for  his  release,  and,  having 
secured  it,  placed  him  in  a  shoe  shop  of  his  own. 
His  business  flourished,  and  he  was  prominently 
identified  with  the  progress  of  the  times.  He 
had  an  itching  palm,  however,  and  after  a  time 
he  forged  the  names  of  all  his  business  friends, 
eloped  with  the  daughter  of  one  of  his  bene- 
factors and  disappeared  from  the  earth,  appar- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

ently.  '  Murder  will  out.'  A  few  years  after  the 
forger  returned  to  the  city,  and  established  him- 
self under  an  assumed  name  in  the  making  of 
shoes,  forgetting,  however,  to  maintain  com- 
placency, and  thinking  that  no  one  would  recog- 
nise him.  In  a  passion  at  what  he  considered  the 
carelessness  of  one  of  his  workmen  regarding  the 
time  some  work  should  have  been  delivered,  he 
told  the  man  he  should  not  have  promised  it,  as 
it  caused  disappointment.  c  Master,'  said  the 
workman,  *  you  have  disappointed  me  worse  than 
that.'  'How,  you  rascal?'  'When  I  waited  a 
whole  hour  in  the  rain  to  see  you  hanged.' ' 

In  1828  and  1829  the  prisoners  were  transferred 
to  Sing  Sing,  and  the  site  passed  into  private 
hands  and  the  Greenwich  State  Prison  was 
no  more.  I  believe  there's  a  brewery  there 
now. 

It  is  an  odd  coincidence  that  the  present  Jeffer- 
son Market  Police  Court  stands  now  at  Tenth 
Street, — though  a  good  bit  further  inland  than 
the  ancient  State's  Prison.  The  old  Jefferson 
Market  clock  has  looked  down  upon  a  deal  of 
crime  and  trouble,  but  a  fair  share  of  goodness 
and  comfort  too.  It  is  hopeful  to  think  that  the 
present  regime  of  Justice  is  a  kindlier  and  a 
cleaner  one  than  that  which  prevailed  when  the 

•i- 54-+ 


THE  GREEN  VILLAGE 

treadmill  and  the  dark  cell  were  Virtue's  methods 
of  persuading  Vice. 

Someone,  I  know  not  who,  wrote  this  apropos 
of  prisons  in  Greenwich: 

"In  these  days  fair  Greenwich  Village 
Slept  by  Hudson's  rural  shores, 

Then  the  stage  from  Greenwich  Prison 
Drove  to  Wall  Street  thrice  a  day — 

Now  the  sombre  ( Black  Maria' 
Oftener  drives  the  other  way." 

But  I  like  to  think  that  the  old  clock,  if  it 
could  speak,  would  have  some  cheering  tales  to 
tell.  I  like  to  believe  that  ugly  things  are  slip- 
ping farther  and  farther  from  Our  Village,  that 
honest  romance  and  clean  gaiety  are  rather  the 
rule  there  than  the  exception,  and  that,  perhaps, 
the  day  will  sometime  dawn  when  there  will  be 
no  more  need  of  the  shame  of  prisons  in  Green- 
wich Village. 

The  early  social  growth  of  the  city  naturally 
centred  about  its  churches.  Even  in  Colonial 
days  conservative  English  society  in  New  York 
assembled  on  Sunday  with  a  devotion  directed 
not  less  to  fashion  than  to  religion.  We  must 
not  forget  that  America  was  really  not  America 
then,  but  Colonial  England.  A  graceful  mili- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

tarism  was  the  order  of  the  day,  and  in  the  fash- 
ionable congregations  were  redcoats  in  plenty. 
The  Church  of  England,  as  represented  and  up- 
held by  Trinity  Parish,  was  the  church  where 
everyone  went.  If  one  were  stubborn  in  dis- 
senting— which  meant,  briefly,  if  one  were  Dutch 
— one  attended  such  of  those  sturdy  outposts  of 
Presbyterianism  as  one  could  find  outside  the 
social  pale.  But  one  was  looked  down  upon 
accordingly. 

It  is  not  hard  to  make  for  oneself  a  colourful 
picture  of  a  typical  Sunday  congregation  in  these 
dead  and  gone  days.  Trinity  was  the  Spiritual 
Headquarters,  one  understands;  St.  Paul's  came 
later,  and  was  immensely  fashionable.  Though 
it  was  rather  far  out  from  Greenwich  the  Green- 
wich denizens  patronised  it  at  the  expense  of 
time  and  trouble.  A  writer,  whose  name  I 
cannot  fix  at  the  moment,  has  described  the 
Sabbath  attendance: — ladies  in  powder  and 
patches  alighting  from  their  chaises;  servants, 
black  of  skin  and  radiant  of  garment;  officers  in 
scarlet  and  white  uniforms  (Colonel  "  Ol "  de 
Lancey  lost  his  patrimony  a  bit  later  because  he 
clung  to  his!) — a  soft,  fluttering,  mincing  crowd- 
most  representative  of  the  Colonies,  and  loathed 
by  the  stiff-necked  Dutch. 

Trinity  got  its  foothold  in  1697,  and  the  rest 


THE  GREEN  VILLAGE 

of  the  English  churches  had  holdings  under  the 
Trinity  shadow.  St.  Paul's  (where  Sir  Peter 
Warren  paid  handsomely  for  a  pew,  and  which 
is  today  perhaps  the  oldest  ecclesiastic  edifice  in 
the  city,  and  certainly  the  oldest  of  the  Trinity 
structures)  was  built  in  1764,  on  the  street  called 
Vesey  because  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Vesey,  its  spiritual 
director.  The  "  God's  Acre "  around  it  held 
many  a  noted  man  and  woman.  Yet,  as  it  is  so 
far  from  the  ground  in  which  we  are  now  con- 
cerning ourselves,  it  seems  a  bit  out  of  place 
perhaps.  But  one  must  perforce  show  the  English 
church's  beginnings,  soon  to  find  a  more  solid 
basis  in  St.  John's  Chapel,  dear  to  all  New  York- 
ers even  nowadays  when  we  behold  it  menaced 
by  that  unholy  juggernaut,  the  subway. 

St.  John's  was  begun  in  1803  and  completed 
in  1807.  It  was  part  of  the  old  King's  Farm, 
originally  granted  to  Trinity  by  Queen  Anne, 
who  appears  to  have  done  quite  a  lot  for  New 
York,  take  it  all  in  all.  It  was  modelled  after 
St.  Martin's-in-the-Fields,  in  London,  and  always 
stood  for  English  traditions  and  ideals.  This  did 
not  prevent  the  British  from  capturing  the  organ 
designed  for  it  and  holding  it  up  for  ransom  in 
the  War  of  1812.  The  organ  was  made  in  Phila- 
delphia, but  was  captured  en  route  by  the  British 
ship  Plantaganet,  a  cruiser  with  seventy-four 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

guns,  which  was  in  the  habit  of  picking  up  little 
boats  and  holding  them  at  $100  to  $200  each. 
Luckily  the  church  bell  had  been  obtained  be- 
fore the  war! 

In  regard  to  the  organ,  the  Weekly  Register 
of  Baltimore  has  this  to  say: 

"  A  great  business  this  for  a  ship  of  the  line. 
.  .  .  Now  a  gentleman  might  suppose  that  this 
article  would  have  passed  harmless." 

St.  John's  Park,  now  obliterated  and  given 
over  to  the  modernism  of  the  Hudson  River  Rail- 
road Company,  used,  in  the  early  fifties,  to  be  still 
fashionable.  Old  New  Yorkers  given  to  remem- 
brance speak  regretfully  of  the  quiet  and  peace 
and  beauty  of  the  Old  Park — which  is  no  more. 
But  St.  John's  is  still  with  us,  "  sombre  and  un- 
alterable," as  one  writer  describes  it,  "  a  stately 
link  between  the  present  and  the  past." 

And  doubtless  nearly  everyone  who  reads  these 
pages  knows  of  St.  John's  famous  "  Dole  "  —the 
Leake  Dole,  which  has  been  such  a  fruitful  topic 
for  newspaper  writers  for  decades  back. 

John  Leake  and  John  Watts,  in  the  year  1792, 
founded  the  Leake  and  Watts'  Orphan  House  and 
John  Leake,  in  so  doing,  added  this  curious 
bequest: 


THE  GREEN  VILLAGE 

"  I  hereby  give  and  bequeathe  unto  the  rector 
and  inhabitants  of  the  Protestant  Episcopal 
Church  of  the  State  of  New  York  one  thousand 
pounds,  put  out  at  interest,  to  be  laid  out  in  the 
annual  income  in  sixpenny  wheaten  loaves  of 
bread  and  distributed  on  every  Sabbath  morning 
after  divine  service,  to  such  poor  as  shall  appear 
most  deserving." 

This  charity  has  endured  through  the  years 
and  is  now  the  trust  of  St.  John's.  I  have  been 
told — though  I  do  not  vouch  for  it — that  the 
bread  is  given  out  not  after  divine  service  but 
very  early  in  the  morning,  when  the  grey  and 
silver  light  of  the  new  day  will  not  too  merci- 
lessly oppress  the  needy  and  unfortunate,  some 
of  them  once  very  rich,  who  come  for  the 
Dole. 

In  1822  St.  Luke's  was  built — also  a  part  of  the 
elastic  Trinity  Parish,  and  probably  the  best- 
known  church,  next  to  old  St.  John's,  that  stands 
in  Greenwich  Village  today. 

The  prejudices  of  the  English  Church  in  early 
New  York  prevented  the  Catholics  from  gaining 
any  sort  of  foothold  until  after  the  British  evacua- 
tion. In  1783  St.  Peter's,  the  first  Roman  Cath- 
olic Church,  was  erected  at  Barclay  Street,  and 
much  trouble  they  had,  if  account  may  be  relied 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

on.  The  reported  tales  of  an  escaped  nun  did 
much  to  inflame  the  bigoted  populace,  but  this 
passed,  and  today  St.  Joseph's,  which  was  built 
in  1829,  stands  on  the  corner  of  Washington  Place 
and  Sixth  Avenue. 

It  is  not  far  away,  by  the  bye,  that  the  old 
Jewish  cemetery  is  to  be  found.  Alderman  Cur- 
ran  quaintly  suggested  that  an  unwarned  stranger 
might  easily  stub  his  toe  on  the  little  graveyard 
on  Eleventh  Street.  It  is  Beth  Haim,  the  Hebrew 
Place  of  Rest,  close  to  Milligan  Lane.  The  same 
Eleventh  Street,  which  (as  we  shall  see  later) 
was  badly  handicapped  by  "  the  stiff-necked  Mr. 
Henry  Brevoort"  cut  half  of  Beth  Haim  away. 
But  a  corner  of  it  remains  and  tranquil  enough 
it  seems,  not  to  say  pleasant,  though  almost  under 
the  roar  of  the  Elevated. 

The  Presbyterian  churches  got  a  foothold 
fairly  early; — probably  the  first  very  fashionable 
one  was  that  on  Mercer  Street.  Its  pastor,  the 
Reverend  Thomas  Skinner,  is  chiefly,  but  de- 
servedly, renowned  for  a  memorable  address  he 
made  to  an  assembly  of  children,  some  time  in 
1834.  Here  is  an  extract  which  is  particularly 
bright  and  lucid: 

"  Catechism  is  a  compendium  of  divine  truth. 
Perhaps,  children,  you  do  not  know  the  meaning 

-*-  60  -*- 


THE  CRADLE  OF  BOHEMIA 

The  first  and  most  famous   French   restaurant  in 
New  York 


THE  GREEN  VILLAGE 

of  that  word.     Compendium  is  synonymous  with 
synopsis  "  !  !  ! 

The  old  Methodist  churches  were  models  of 
Puritanism.  In  the  beginning  they  met  in  car- 
penter shops,  or  wherever  they  could.  When 
they  had  real  churches,  they,  for  a  long  time,  had 
separate  entrances  for  the  sexes. 

It  was  after  I  had  read  of  this  queer  little  side 
shoot  of  asceticism  that  I  began  to  fully  appre- 
ciate what  a  friend  of  mine  had  said  to  me  con- 
cerning the  New  Greenwich. 

"  The  Village,"  he  said,  "  is  a  protest  against 
Puritanism."  And,  he  added:  "It's  just  an 
island,  a  little  island  entirely  surrounded  by 
hostile  seas! " 

The  Village,  old  and  new,  is  a  protest.  It  is 
a  voice  in  the  wilderness.  Some  day  perhaps  it 
will  conquer  even  the  hostile  seas.  Anyway, 
most  of  the  voyagers  on  the  hostile  seas  will 
come  to  the  Village  eventually,  so  it  should 
worry! 

The  Green  Village  is  green  no  longer,  except 
in  scattered  spots  where  the  foliage  seems  to  bub- 
ble up  from  the  stone  and  brick  as  irrepressibly 
as  Minetta  Water  once  bubbled  up  thereabouts. 
But  it  is  still  the  Village,  and  utterly  different 
from  the  rest  of  the  city.  Not  all  the  commis- 

-*-  61  -*- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

sioners  in  the  world  could  change  the  charming, 
erratic  plan  of  it;  not  the  most  powerful  pres- 
sure of  modern  business  could  destroy  its  insistent, 
yet  elusive  personality.  The  Village  has  always 
persistently  eluded  incorporation  in  the  rest  of  the 
city.  Never  forget  this:  Greenwich  was  de- 
veloped as  independently  as  Boston  or  Chicago. 
It  is  not  New  York  proper:  it  is  an  entirely 
separate  place.  At  points,  New  York  overflows 
into  it,  or  it  straggles  out  into  New  York,  but  it 
is  first  and  foremost  itself.  It  is  not  changeless 
at  all,  but  its  changes  are  eternal  and  superbly  in- 
dependent of,  and  inconsistent  with,  metropolitan 
evolution. 

There  was  a  formative  period  when,  socially 
speaking,  the  growth  of  Greenwich  was  the 
growth  of  New  York.  But  that  was  when  Green- 
wich was  almost  the  whole  of  fashionable 
New  York.  Later  New  York  plunged  onward 
and  left  the  green  cradle  of  its  splendid  begin- 
nings. But  the  cradle  remained,  still  to  cherish 
new  lives  and  fresh  ideals  and  a  society  pro- 
foundly different,  yet  scarcely  less  exclusive  in 
its  way,  than  that  of  the  Colonies.  It  has  been 
described  by  so  many  writers  in  so  many  ways 
that  one  is  at  a  loss  for  a  choice  of  quotations. 
Perhaps  the  most  whimsically  descriptive  is  in 
O.  Henry's  "  Last  Leaf." 

-*-  62  -*- 


THE  GREEN  VILLAGE 

"  In  a  little  district  west  of  Washington  Square 
the  streets  have  run  crazy  and  broken  themselves 
into  small  strips  called  '  places.'  These  l  places ' 
make  strange  angles  and  curves.  One  street 
crosses  itself  a  time  or  two.  An  artist  once  dis- 
covered a  valuable  possibility  in  this  street.  Sup- 
pose a  collector  with  a  bill  for  paint,  paper  and 
canvas  should,  in  traversing  this  route,  suddenly 
meet  himself  coming  back,  without  a  cent  having 
been  paid  on  account! " 

And  Kate  Jordan  offers  this  concerning  Wav- 
erly  Place: 

"  Here  Eleventh  and  Fourth  streets,  refusing 
to  be  separated  by  arithmetical  arrangements, 
meet  at  an  unexpected  point  as  if  to  shake  hands, 
and  Waverly  Place  sticks  its  head  in  where  some 
other  street  ought  to  be,  for  all  the  world  like  a 
village  busybody  who  has  to  see  what  is  happen- 
ing around  the  corner." 

But  what  of  the  spirit  of  Greenwich?  The 
truth  is  that  first  and  foremost  Greenwich  is  the 
home  of  romance.  It  is  a  sort  of  Make  Believe 
Land  which  has  never  grown  up,  and  which  will 
never  learn  to  be  modern  and  prosaic. 

It  is  full  of  romance.    You  cannot  escape  it,  no 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

matter  how  hard  you  try  to  be  practical.  You 
start  off  on  some  commonplace  stroll  enough — or 
you  tell  yourself  it  will  be  so;  you  are  in  the 
middle  of  cable  car  lines  and  hustling  people 
and  shouting  truck  drivers,  and  street  cleaners 
and  motors  and  newsboys,  and  all  the  component 
parts  of  a  modern  and  seemingly  very  sordid 
city — when,  lo  and  behold,  a  step  to  the  right 
or  left  has  taken  you  into  another  country  entirely 
— I  had  well-nigh  said  another  world.  Where 
did  it  come  from — that  quaint  little  house  with 
the  fanlight  over  the  door  and  the  flower-starred 
grassplot  in  front?  Did  it  fall  from  the  skies  or 
was  it  built  in  a  minute  like  the  delectable  little 
house  in  "Peter  Pan"?  Neither.  It  has  stood 
there  right  along  for  half  or  three-quarters  of  a 
century,  only  you  didn't  happen  to  know  it.  You 
have  stepped  around  the  corner  into  Greenwich 
Village,  that's  all. 

"  In  spots  there  is  an  unwonted  silence,  as 
though  one  were  in  some  country  village,"  says 
Joseph  Van  Dyke.  "...  There  are  scraps  of 
this  silence  to  be  found  about  old  houses,  old 
walls,  old  trees." 

Here,  as  in  the  fairy  tales,  all  things  become  pos- 
sible. You  know  that  a  lady  in  a  mob-cap  and 
panniers  is  playing  inside  that  shyly  curtained 
window.  Hark!  You  can  hear  the  thin,  deli- 

-*-  64  -*- 


THE  GREEN  VILLAGE 

cate  notes  quite  plainly:  this  is  such  a  quiet  little 
street.  A  piano  rather  out  of  tune?  Perish  the 
thought!  Dear  friend,  it  is  a  spinet, — a  harpsi- 
chord. Almost  you  can  smell  pot-pourri. 

Perhaps  it  was  of  such  a  house  that  H.  C. 
Bunner  wrote: 

"  We  lived  in  a  cottage  in  old  Greenwich  Village, 
With  a  tiny  clay  plot  that  *was  burnt  brown 

and  hard; 

But  it  softened  at  last  to  my  girl's  patient  tillage, 
And  the  roses  sprang  up  in  our  little  back- 
yard; " 

The  garden  hunger  of  the  Village!  It  is  some- 
thing pathetic  and  yet  triumphant,  pitiful  and 
also  splendid.  It  is  joyous  life  and  growth  hop- 
ing in  the  most  unpromising  surroundings:  it  is 
eager  and  gallant  hope  exulting  in  the  very  teeth 
of  defeat.  Do  you  remember  John  Reed's — 

"  Below' s  the  barren,  grassless,  earthen  ring 
Where  Madame,  with  a  faith  unwavering 
Planted  a  wistful  garden  every  spring, — 
Forever  hoped-for, — never  blossoming." 

Yet  they  do  blossom,  those  hidden  and  usually 
unfruitful  garden-places.  Sometimes  they  bloom 

-e-  65  -e- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

in  real  flowers  that  anyone  can  see  and  touch  and 
smell.  Sometimes  they  come  only  as  flowers  of 
the  heart — which,  after  all,  will  do  as  well  as 
another  sort, — in  Greenwich  Village,  where  they 
know  how  to  make  believe. 

Here  is  how  Hugh  Macatamney  describes 
Greenwich: 

"  A  walk  through  the  heart  of  this  interesting 
locality — the  American  quarter,  from  Fourteenth 
Street  down  to  Canal,  west  of  Sixth  Avenue — will 
reveal  a  moral  and  physical  cleanliness  not  found 
in  any  other  semi-congested  part  of  New  York; 
an  individuality  of  the  positive  sort  transmitted 
from  generation  to  generation;  a  picturesqueness 
in  its  old  houses,  *  standing  squarely  on  their  right 
to  be  individual '  alongside  those  of  modern  times, 
and,  above  all  else,  a  truly  American  atmosphere 
of  the  pure  kind." 

He  adds: 

"  Please  remember,  too,  that  in  1816  Green- 
wich Village  had  individualism  enough  to  be  the 
terminus  of  a  stage  line  from  Pine  Street  and 
Broadway,  the  stages  *  running  on  the  even  hours 
from  Greenwich  and  the  uneven  hours  from  Pine 
Street.7 " 

t-66-i- 


THE  GREEN  VILLAGE 

You  walk  on  through  Greenwich  Village  and 
you  will  expect  romance  to  meet  you.  Even 
the  distant  clang  of  a  cable  car  out  in  the  city 
will  not  break  the  spell  that  is  on  you  now. 
And  if  you  have  a  spark  of  fancy,  you  will 
find  your  romance.  You  cannot  walk  a  block 
in  Greenwich  without  coming  on  some  stony 
wall,  suggestive  alley,  quaint  house  or  vista  or 
garden  plot  or  tree.  Everything  sings  to  you 
there;  even  the  poorest  sections  have  a  quaint 
glamour  of  their  own.  It  gleams  out  at  you  from 
the  most  forbidding  surroundings.  Sometimes  it 
is  only  a  century-old  door  knocker  or  an  ancient 
vine-covered  wall — but  it  is  a  breath  from  the 
gracious  past. 

And  as  you  cannot  go  a  step  in  the  Village 
without  seeing  something  picturesque  so  you  can- 
not read  a  page  of  the  history  of  Greenwich  with- 
out stumbling  upon  the  trail  of  romance  or  ad- 
venture. As,  for  example,  the  tale  of  that  same 
Sir  Peter  Warren,  whose  name  we  have  encoun- 
tered more  than  once  before,  as  proper  a  man  as 
ever  stepped  through  the  leaves  of  a  Colonial 
history  and  the  green  purlieus  of  Old  Greenwich! 


67 


The  Gallant  Career  of 
Sir  Peter  Warren 


CHAPTER  III 

The  Gallant  Career  of  Sir  Peter  Warren 

"...  Affection  with  truth  must  say 
That,  deservedly  esteemed  in  private  life, 
And  universally  renowned  for  his  public  conduct, 

The  judicial  and  gallant  Officer 
Possessed  all  the  amiable  qualities  of  the 

Friend,  the  Gentleman,  and  the  Christian  ..." 

— From  the  epitaph  written  for  Sir 
Peter's  tomb  in  W 'estminster  Abbey 
by  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson. 

HE  sea  has  always  made  a  splendid 
romantic  setting  for  a  gallant  hero. 
Even  one  of  moderate  attainments  and 
inconsiderable  adventures  may  loom  to 
proportions  that  are  quite  picturesque  when  given 
a  background  of  tossing  waves,  "  all  sails  set," 
and  a  few  jolly  tars  to  sing  and  fight  and  heave 
the  rope.  And  when  you  have  a  hero  who  needs 
no  augmenting  of  heroism,  no  spectacular  em- 
bellishment as  it  were, — what  a  gorgeous  figure 
he  becomes,  to  be  sure! 

Peter  Warren,  fighting  Irish  lad,  venturesome 
sailor,  sometime  Admiral  and  Member  of  Par- 
liament, and  at  all  times  a  merry  and  courageous 
soldier  of  the  high  seas,  falls  heir  to  as  pretty 

-*-  71  -»- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

and  stirring  a  reputation  as  ever  set  a  gilded 
aureole  about  the  head  of  a  man.  Though  he 
was  in  the  British  navy  and  a  staunch  believer  in 
"  Imperial  England,"  he  was  so  closely  associated 
with  New  York  for  so  many  years  that  no  book 
about  the  city  could  be  written  without  doing 
him  some  measure  of  honour.  No  figure  is  so 
fit  as  Sir  Peter's  to  represent  those  picturesque 
Colonial  days  when  the  "  Sons  of  Liberty  "  had 
not  begun  to  assemble,  and  this  New  York  of 
ours  was  well-nigh  as  English  as  London  town 
itself.  So,  resplendent  in  his  gold-laced  uniform 
and  the  smartly  imposing  hat  of  his  rank  and 
office,  let  him  enter  and  make  his  bow, — Admiral 
Sir  Peter  Warren,  by  your  leave,  Knight  of  the 
Bath,  Member  of  Parliament,  destined  to  lie  at 
last  in  the  stately  gloom  of  the  Abbey,  with  the 
rest  of  the  illustrious  English  dead. 

He  came  of  a  long  line  of  Irishmen,  and  cer- 
tainly did  that  fine  fighting  race  the  utmost  credit. 
From  his  boyhood  he  was  always  hunting  trouble; 
he  dearly  loved  a  fight,  and  gravitated  into  the 
British  navy  as  inevitably  as  a  duck  to  water. 
He  was  scarcely  more  than  an  urchin  when  he 
became  a  fighting  sailor,  and  indeed  one  could 
expect  no  less,  for  both  his  father  and  grand- 
father had  been  officers  in  the  service,  and  good- 
ness knows  how  many  lusty  Warrens  before  them ! 

-*-  72  -*- 


GALLANT  CAREER  OF  SIR  PETER  WARREN 

For  our  friend  Peter  was  a  Warren  of  Warrens- 
town,  of  the  County  Meath  just  west  of  Dublin, 
and  let  me  tell  you  that  meant  something! 

The  Warrens  got  their  estates  in  the  days  of 
"  Strongbow,"  and  held  them  through  all  the 
vicissitudes  of  olden  Ireland.  They  were  a  house 
called  "  English-Irish,"  and  "  inside  the  pale," 
which  means  that  they  stood  high  in  British 
favour,  and  contributed  heroes  to  the  army  or 
navy  from  each  of  their  hardy  generations.  They 
had  no  title,  but  to  be  The  Warren  of  Warrens- 
town,  Meath,  was  to  be  entitled  to  look  down 
with  disdain  upon  upstart  baronets  and  newly 
created  peers.  Sir  Christopher  Aylmer's  daugh- 
ter, Catherine,  was  honoured  to  marry  Captain 
Michael  Warren,  and  her  brother,  Admiral  Lord 
Aylmer,  only  too  glad  to  take  charge  of  her  boy 
Peter  later  on. 

Peter  was  the  youngest  of  a  family,  composed 
with  one  exception  of  boys,  and  the  most  am- 
bitious of  the  lot.  When  he  was  nine  years  old 
(he  was  born  in  1703,  by  the  bye),  his  father, 
Captain  Michael,  died,  and  three  years  later 
the  oldest  son,  Oliver,  decided  to  send  Peter 
to  his  uncle  Lord  Aylmer  to  be  trained  for  the 
service.  Is  it  far-fetched  to  assume  that  Oliver 
found  his  small  brother  something  of  a  handful? 
If  Peter  was  one-quarter  as  pugnacious  and  fool- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

hardy  at  twelve  as  he  was  at  forty,  there  is  small 
wonder  that  a  young  man  burdened  with  the  cares 
of  a  large  estate  and  an  orphaned  family  would 
be  not  unwilling  to  get  rid  of  him, — or  at  least 
of  the  responsibility  of  him.  Their  uncle,  the 
Admiral,  apparently  liked  his  little  Irish  nephew, 
and  proceeded  to  train  him  for  a  naval  career, 
with  such  vigourous  success  that  at  fourteen  our 
young  hero  volunteered  for  His  Majesty's  service, 
— a  thing,  we  may  take  it,  which  had  been  the 
high  dream  of  his  boyish  life. 

And  it  was  real  service  too.  Boys  turned  into 
men  very  quickly  in  those  days.  In  Southern 
and  African  waters  young  Peter  saw  plenty  of 
action.  He  had  such  adventures  as  our  modern 
boys  sit  up  at  night  to  read  of.  For  there  were 
pirates  to  be  encountered  then,  flesh-and-blood 
pirates  with  black  flags  and  the  rest  of  it.  And 
deep-sea  storms  meant  more  in  those  days  of 
sails  and  comparatively  light  vessels  than  we  can 
even  imagine  today.  So  swiftly  did  Peter  grow 
up  under  this  stern  yet  thrilling  education  with 
the  English  colours,  that  after  four  short  years 
he  was  a  lieutenant.  And  in  another  six,  at  an 
age  when  most  young  men  are  barely  standing  on 
the  threshold  of  their  life-work,  he  was  posted  a 
full  captain  and  given  his  first  command! 

His  ship  was  H.   M.   S.   Grafton,  of  seventy 


GALLANT  CAREER  OF  SIR  PETER  WARREN 

guns, — no  small  honour  for  a  boy  of  hardly 
twenty-four, — and  it  proved  to  be  no  empty 
honour  either.  No  sooner  had  he  been  posted 
captain  than  he  was  ordered  into  action.  At  that 
time  there  were  signal  and  violent  differences  of 
opinion  between  England  and  other  countries, — 
notably  Spain  and  France.  Gibraltar  was  the 
subject  of  one  of  them,  it  may  be  recalled.  It 
was  to  Gibraltar  that  Captain  Warren  and  his 
good  ship  Grafton  were  ordered.  And  when  Sir 
Charles  Wager  seized  that  historic  bone  of  conten- 
tion, Peter  was  with  the  fleet  that  did  the  seizing. 

From  that  moment  he  was  in  the  thick  of 
trouble  wherever  it  was  to  be  found,  like  the 
dear,  daredevil  young  Irishman  that  he  was! 
Just  a  moment  let  us  pause  to  try  to  visualise  this 
youthful  adventurer  of  ours,  with  the  courtly 
manners,  the  irrepressible  boyish  recklessness  and 
the  big  heart.  Our  only  authentic  descriptions 
of  him  are  of  a  Peter  Warren  many  years  older; 
our  only  even  probable  likenesses  are  the  same. 
But  let  us  take  these,  and  reckoning  backward 
see  what  a  man  of  such  characteristics  must  have 
been  like  in  his  early  twenties. 

A  delightful  old  print  ostensibly  representing 
him  at  forty,  shows  him  to  have  been  a  round- 
faced,  more  or  less  portly  gentleman,  with  a  full, 
pleasant  mouth  and  very  big  and  bright  eyes. 

•+-75-*- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

His  wig  is  meticulously  curled  and  powdered, 
and  he  is,  plainly,  a  very  fine  figure  of  a  man 
indeed.  Roubilliac's  bust  of  him  in  Westminster 
makes  him  much  better  looking  and  not  nearly 
so  stout  Thomas  Janvier,  who  has  written  de- 
lightfully about  our  captain,  disturbs  me  by  in- 
sisting that  he  was  a  little  man, — nay,  his  insult 
goes  deeper:  he  says  a  little,  fat  man!  I  simply 
will  not  accept  such  a  distressing  theory! 

Edward  de  Lancey,  descended  from  the  family 
of  the  girl  Peter  married,  describes  him  as  being 
".  .  .Of  attractive  manners,  quick  in  perception 
and  action,  but  clear-headed  and  calm  in  judg- 
ment." And  the  historian  Parkman  declares  that 
at  forty-two  he  had  "  the  ardour  of  youth  still 
burning  within  him."  Reverse  the  figures.  What 
do  you  suppose  that  ardour  was  like  when  he  was 
not  forty-two  but  twenty-four? 

At  the  time  of  our  hero's  first  command  and 
first  naval  engagement  on  his  own  ship,  things 
were  quite  exciting  for  his  King  and  country, 
though  we  have  most  of  us  forgotten  that  such 
excitements  ever  existed.  England  had  a  host  of 
enemies,  some  of  them  of  her  own  household. 
It  was  even  whispered  that  the  American  pos- 
sessions were  not  entirely  and  whole-heartedly 
loyal!  This  seemed  incredible,  to  be  sure,  but 
the  men  in  high  places  kept  an  eye  on  them  just 

-e-  76  -e- 


GALLANT  CAREER  OF  SIR  PETER  WARREN 

the  same.  Captain  Warren's  first  official  post 
was  the  station  of  New  York,  and  in  1728  he 
made  his  first  appearance  in  this  harbour. 

He  was  then  just  twenty-five,  and  gloriously 
adventurous.  One  can  imagine  with  what  a 
thrill  he  set  sail  for  a  new  country,  new  friends, 
new  excitements!  I  wonder  if  he  guessed  that 
the  lady  of  his  heart  awaited  him  in  that  un- 
known land,  as  well  as  the  dear  home  where,  for 
all  his  sea-roving  taste,  he  was  to  return  again 
and  again  through  twenty  rich  years?  He  was 
in  command  of  the  frigate  Solebay  then,  and  in 
the  old  papers  we  read  many  mentions  of  both 
ship  and  officer.  From  almost  the  first  Peter 
loved  the  Colonies  and  the  Colonies  loved  him. 
In  between  his  cruises  and  battles  he  kept  coming 
back  like  a  homing  bird,  and  every  time  he  came 
he  seemed  to  have  won  a  little  more  glory  with 
his  various  ships, — the  sloop  Squirrel,  the  frigate 
Launceston,  and  the  big  ship  Superbe  with  sixty 
guns.  It  is  said  that  no  man  save  only  the  Gov- 
ernor himself  made  so  fine  an  appearance  as 
young  Captain  Warren,  and  fair  ladies  vied  with 
each  other  for  his  attentions!  Nevertheless,  his 
social  successes  at  this  time  were  nothing  to  what 
was  to  come,  when  he  had  more  money  to  spend! 

Two  years  after  his  first  introduction  to  New 
York,  the  Common  Council  of  the  city  voted  to 

+-77 -i- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

him  "  the  freedom  of  the  city,"  from  which  one 
gathers  some  idea  of  his  standing  in  public 
favour!  And  in  another  year, — of  course, — he 
got  married,  and  to  one  of  the  prettiest  girls  in 
the  town,  Susanna  de  Lancey! 

Janvier  says  that  the  marriage  did  not  take 
place  until  1744,  but  other  authorities  place  it  at 
thirteen  years  earlier.  It  is  much  more  probable 
that  Peter  got  married  at  twenty-eight  than  at 
forty-one;  I  scarcely  think  that  he  could  have 
escaped  so  long! 

Susanna's  father  was  Monsieur  Etienne  de 
Lancey,  a  Huguenot  refugee,  who  had  fled  from 
Catholic  France  to  the  more  liberal  Colonies,  and 
settled  here.  He  soon  changed  the  Etienne  to 
Stephen,  married  the  daughter  of  one  of  the  old 
Dutch  houses  (Van  Cortlandt)  and  went  into 
business.  Just  what  his  occupation  was  is  not 
clear,  but  later  he  acted  as  agent  for  Captain 
Warren  in  the  disposal  of  his  war  prizes.  His 
sons,  James  and  Oliver,  were  intimate  friends  of 
Peter's  through  life,  and,  as  will  be  seen,  they 
worked  together  most  zestfully  when  in  later 
years  the  captain's  boundless  energies  took  a  turn 
at  politics. 

So  gallant  Irish-English  Peter  and  lovely 
French-Dutch  Susanna  were  married  and,  we  be- 
lieve, lived  happily  ever  after.  They  lived  in 


GALLANT  CAREER  OF  SIR  PETER  WARREN 

New  York  town  proper,  but  I  conceive  that,  like 
other  young  lovers,  they  made  many  a  trip  out 
into  the  country,  and  that  it  was  their  dream  to 
live  there  one  day  when  they  should  be  rich.  Cer- 
tain it  is  that  as  soon  as  our  hero  did  get  a  little 
money  at  last  he  could  hardly  wait  to  buy  the 
farm  land  far  out  of  town  on  the  river.  But  that 
time  was  not  yet. 

Needless  to  say,  Peter's  married  life,  happy  as 
it  was,  could  not  keep  him  long  on  shore.  We 
keep  finding  his  name  and  the  names  of  his  ships 
in  the  delicious  old  newspapers  of  his  day:  Cap- 
tain Warren  has  just  arrived;  Captain  Warren's 
ship  has  "gone  upon  the  careen"  (i.e.,  is  being 
repaired)  ;  Captain  Warren  is  sailing  next  week, 
and  so  on,  and  so  on.  The  New  York  Gazette 
for  May  31,  1736,  states  that:  "  On  Saturday  last, 
Captain  Warren  in  His  Majesty's  ship  the  Squir- 
rel arrived  here  in  eight  weeks  from  England." 
One  perceives  that  this  was  record  time,  and 
worth  a  journalistic  paragraph! 

Troubles  becoming  more  rife  with  Spain  in 
1739,  Peter  begged  for  active  service  and  got  it. 
This  probably  was  the  beginning  of  his  great 
prosperity,  though  his  wealth  did  not  become 
sensational  until  nearly  five  years  later.  For- 
tunes were  constantly  being  made  in  prize  ships 
in  those  days,  and  you  may  be  sure  that  our  enter- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

prising  sea-fighter  was  not  behind  other  men  in 
this  or  in  anything  else  calling  for  initiative  and 
daring!  At  all  events  the  records  seem  to  show 
that  he  bought  his  lands  in  the  Green  Village, — 
Greenwich, — about  1740,  when  he  was  thirty- 
seven.  Whether  he  built  his  house  at  that  early 
date  is  not  clear,  but  he  probably  didn't  have 
money  enough  yet,  for  when  he  did  build,  it  was 
on  a  magnificent  scale.  In  1744,  however,  came 
his  golden  harvest  time  I 

It  was  a  little  after  midwinter  of  that  year 
that  Sir  Chaloner  Ogle  made  him  commodore  of 
a  sixteen-ship  squadron  in  the  waters  of  the  Lee- 
ward Islands  where  there  was  decidedly  good 
hunting  in  the  way  of  prize  ships.  Off  Mar- 
tinique were  many  French  and  Spanish  boats 
simply  waiting,  it  would  almost  seem,  to  be  eaten 
alive  by  the  enemy's  cruisers;  and  Captain  Peter 
who  had  the  sound  treasure-hunting  instinct  of 
your  born  adventurer,  proceeded  to  gobble  them 
up!  In  the  four  months  that  rolled  jovially  by 
between  the  middle  of  February  and  the  middle 
of  June,  the  Captain  captured  twenty-four  of 
these  prizes,  one  alone  with  a  plate  cargo  valued 
at  two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  pounds!  Ah, 
but  those  were  the  rare  days  for  a  stout-hearted 
seafaring  man,  with  a  fleet  of  strong  boats  and 
an  expensive  taste! 


GALLANT  CAREER  OF  SIR  PETER  WARREN 

Captain  Warren  brought  his  prizes  to  New 
York  and  handed  them  over  to  his  father-in-law's 
firm, — advertised  in  the  old  papers  as  "  Messieurs 
Stephen  de  Lancey  and  Company," — who  acted 
as  his  agents  in  practically  all  of  what  Janvier 
disrespectfully  styles  "  his  French  and  Spanish 
swag"!  Governor  Clinton  had  exempted  prizes 
from  duty,  so  it  was  all  clear  profit.  With  the 
proceeds  of  the  excellent  deals  which  De  Lancey 
made  for  him,  he  then  proceeded  to  cut  the 
swathe  for  which  he  was  by  temperament  and 
attributes  so  well  fitted. 

There  never  was  an  Irishman  yet,  nor  a  sailor 
either,  who  could  not  spend  money  in  the  grand 
manner.  Our  Captain  was  no  exception,  be  cer- 
tain! He  figures  superbly  in  the  social  accounts 
of  the  day;  it  is  safe  to  assert  that  he  set  the  pace 
after  a  fashion,  and  fair  Mistress  Susanna  was  a 
real  leader  of  real  Colonial  dames!  He  appears 
to  have  been  a  genuinely  and  deservedly  popular 
fellow,  our  Peter  Warren,  throwing  his  prize 
money  about  with  a  handsome  lavishness,  and 
upholding  the  honour  of  the  British  navy  as  gal- 
lantly in  American  society  as  ever  he  had  in  hos- 
tile waters  abroad. 

And  now  for  that  dream  of  a  country  home! 
Warren  had  lands  on  the  Mohawk  River  and  else- 
where, but  his  heart  had  always  yearned  for  the 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

tract  of  land  in  sylvan  Greenwich.  In  that  quiet 
little  hamlet  on  the  green  banks  of  the  Hudson  the 
birds  sang  and  the  leaves  rustled,  and  the  blue 
water  rested  tired  eyes.  Peter  at  this  time  owned 
nearly  three  hundred  acres  of  ground  there  and 
now  that  he  had  money  in  plenty,  he  lost  no  time 
in  building  a  glorious  dovecote  for  himself  and 
Mistress  Susanna — a  splendid  house  in  full  keep- 
ing with  his  usual  large  way  of  doing  things. 

Stroll  around  the  block  that  is  squared  by  the 
present  Charles,  Perry,  Bleecker  and  Tenth  streets 
some  day,  look  at  the  brick  and  stone,  the  shops 
and  boarding-houses, — and  try  to  dream  yourself 
back  into  the  eighteenth  century,  when,  in  that 
very  square  of  land,  stood  the  Captain's  lovely 
country  seat.  In  those  days  it  was  something 
enormous,  palatial,  and  indeed  was  always  known 
as  the  Mansion  or  Manse.  This  is,  of  course, 
the  basis  for  the  silly  theory  that  Greenwich  got 
its  name  from  the  estate.  Undoubtedly  the  War- 
ren place  was  the  largest  and  most  important  one 
out  there,  and  for  a  time  to  "  go  out  to  visit  at 
Greenwich,"  meant  to  go  out  to  visit  the  Manse. 
For  years  the  Captain  and  the  Captain's  lady  lived 
in  this  beautiful  and  restful  place  with  three 
little  daughters  to  share  their  money,  their  affec- 
tions and  their  amiable  lives.  Thomas  Janvier's 
description  of  the  house  as  he  visualises  it  with 

-t-82-f- 


OLD  ST.  JOHN'S 

'Still  faces  on  Varick  Street,  sombre  and  unaltered, 
a  stately  link  between  the  present  and  the  past" 


GALLANT  CAREER  OF  SIR  PETER  WARREN 

his  rich  imagination  is  too  charming  not  to 
quote  in  part: 

"  The  house  stood  about  three  hundred  yards 
back  from  the  river,  on  ground  which  fell  away 
in  a  gentle  slope  towards  the  waterside.  The 
main  entrance  was  from  the  east;  and  at  the  rear 
— on  the  level  of  the  drawing-room  and  a  dozen 
feet  or  so  above  the  sloping  hillside — was  a 
broad  veranda  commanding  the  view  westward 
to  the  Jersey  Highlands  and  southward  down  the 
bay  to  the  Staten  Island  Hills."  The  fanciful 
description  goes  on  to  picture  Captain  Warren 
sitting  on  this  veranda,  "  smoking  a  comforting 
pipe  after  his  mid-day  dinner;  and  taking  with 
it,  perhaps,  as  seafaring  gentlemen  very  often  did 
in  those  days,  a  glass  or  two  of  substantial  rum- 
and-water  to  keep  everything  below  hatches  well 
stowed.  With  what  approving  eye  must  he  have 
regarded  the  trimly  kept  lawns  and  gardens  below 
him ;  and  with  what  eyes  of  affection  the  Launces- 
ton,  all  a-taunto,  lying  out  in  the  stream!" 

I  have  called  the  description  of  the  house 
"  fanciful,"  but  it  is  really  not  that,  since  the 
old  house  fell  into  Abraham  Van  Nest's  hands 
at  a  later  date,  and  stood  there  for  over  a  century, 
with  the  poplars,  for  which  it  was  famous,  and 
the  box  hedges,  in  which  Susanna  had  taken 
such  pride,  growing  more  beautiful  through  the 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

years.  Not  until  1865  was  the  lovely  place  de- 
stroyed by  the  tidal  wave  of  modern  building. 
The  Captain  kept  his  town  house  as  well, — the 
old  Jay  place,  on  the  lower  end  of  Broadway, 
but  it  was  at  the  Manse  that  he  loved  best  to 
stay,  and  the  Manse  which  was  and  always  re- 
mained his  real  and  beloved  home.  In  1744  his 
seaman's  restlessness  again  won  over  his  domestic 
tranquillity  and  he  was  off  once  more  in  search 
of  fresh  adventures  and  dangers.  Says  the 
Weekly  Post  Boy,  of  August  27th,  in  that  year: 

"  His  Majesty's  ship  Launceston,  commanded 
by  the  brave  Commodore  Warren  (whose  absence 
old  Oceanus  seems  to  lament),  being  now  suffi- 
ciently repaired,  will  sail  in  a  few  days  in  order 
once  more  to  pay  some  of  His  Majesty's  enemies 
a  visit." 

And  it  winds  up  with  this  burst: 

"  The  sails  are  spread;  see  the  bold  warrior  comes 
To  chase  the  French  and  interloping  Dons!" 

It  was  in  the  following  year  that  he  signally 
distinguished  himself  in  the  historic  Siege  of 
Louisbourg,  winning  himself  a  promotion  to  the 
rank  of  Rear  Admiral  of  the  Blue,  and  a  knight- 

•1-84-1. 


GALLANT  CAREER  OF  SIR  PETER  WARREN 

hood  as  well!  It  may  seem  a  far  cry  from  Green- 
wich, New  York,  to  Louisbourg,  but  we  cannot 
pass  over  the  incident  without  sparing  it  a  little 
space.  Let  me  beg  your  patience, — quoting,  in 
my  own  justification,  no  less  a  historian  than 
James  Grant  Wilson: 

"  This  Commodore  Warren  was  one  of  those  in- 
defatigable and  nervous  spirits  who  did  such 
wonders  at  Louisbourg,  and  it  is  with  particular 
pride  that  his  achievement  should  be  remembered 
in  a  history  of  New- York,  as  he  was  the  only 
prominent  New-Yorker  that  contributed  to  Mas- 
sachusetts' greatest  Colonial  achievement." 

The  capture  of  Louisbourg  may  be  remembered 
by  some  history  readers  as  a  part  of  that  English- 
French  quarrel  of  1745,  commonly  known  as 
"  King  George's  War,"  and  also  as  the  under- 
taking described  by  so  many  contemporaries  as 
"  Shirley's  Mad  Scheme."  The  scheme  was 
rather  mad;  hence  its  appeal  to  Peter  Warren, 
who  was  exceedingly  keen  about  it  from  the 
beginning. 

Louisbourg  was  a  strong  French  fortress  on 
Cape  Breton  Island,  commanding  the  gulf  of  the 
St.  Lawrence.  Its  value  as  a  military  strong- 
hold was  great,  and  besides  it  had  long  been  a 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

fine  base  for  privateers,  and  was  a  very  present 
source  of  peril  to  the  New  England  fishermen 
off  the  Banks.  As  far  back  as  1741  Governor 
Clarke  of  New  York  had  urged  the  taking  of 
this  redoubtable  French  station,  but  it  fell  to  the 
masterful  Shirley,  Governor  of  Massachusetts, 
finally  to  organise  the  expedition.  He  had  Colo- 
nial militia  to  the  tune  of  four  thousand  men,  and 
he  had  Colonial  boats, — nearly  a  hundred  of 
them, — and  he  had  the  approval  of  the  Crown 
(conveyed  through  the  Duke  of  Newcastle) ; 
but  he  wanted  leaders.  For  his  land  force  he  chose 
General  Pepperrill,  an  eminently  safe  and  sane 
type  of  soldier;  for  the  sea  he,  with  a  real  brain 
throb,  thought  of  Captain  Peter  Warren.  Francis 
Parkman  says:  "Warren,  who  had  married  an 
American  woman  and  who  owned  large  tracts  of 
land  on  the  Mohawk,  was  known  to  be  a  warm 
friend  to  the  provinces."  He  was  at  Antigua 
when  he  received  the  Governor's  request  that  he 
take  command  of  the  "  Mad  Scheme."  Needless 
to  say,  the  Captain  was  charmed  with  the  idea, 
but  he  had  no  orders  from  the  King!  He  refused 
almost  weeping,  and  for  two  days  was  plunged  in 
gloom.  Imagine  such  a  glorious  chance  for  a 
fight  going  begging! 

Then  arrived  a  belated  letter  from  Newcastle 
in   England,   telling  him   to   "  concert  measures 

-f-86-f- 


GALLANT  CAREER  OF  SIR  PETER  WARREN 

with  Shirley  for  the  annoyance  of  the  enemy." 
Warren  was  so  afraid  that  some  future  orders 
would  be  less  vague,  and  give  him  less  freedom, 
that  he  set  sail  for  Boston  with  a  haste  that  was 
feverish.  He  had  with  him  three  ships, — the 
Mermaid  and  Launceston  of  forty  guns  each,  and 
the  Superbe  of  sixty.  But  those  two  wretched 
days  of  delay!  He  fell  in  with  a  schooner  from 
which  he  learned  that  Shirley's  expedition  had 
started  without  him! 

I  daresay,  being  a  sailor  and  Irish,  our  Cap- 
tain expressed  himself  exhaustively  just  then; 
but  he  recovered  speedily  and  told  the  schooner 
to  send  him  every  British  ship  she  met  in  her 
voyage;  then  he  changed  his  course  and  beat 
straight  for  Canseau,  determined  to  be  in  that 
expedition  after  all.  He  certainly  was  in  it,  and 
a  brisk  time  he  had  of  it,  too. 

At  Canseau  they  were  all  tied  up  three  weeks, 
drilling  and  waiting  for  the  ice  to  break,  but 
they  were  thankful  to  get  there  at  all.  The 
storms  were  severe,  as  may  be  gathered  by  this 
account  of  their  efforts  to  get  into  Canseau,  writ- 
ten by  one  of  the  men:  "  A  very  Fierse  Storm  of 
Snow,  som  Rain  and  very  Dangerous  weather  to 
be  so  nigh  ye  Shore  as  we  was;  but  we  escaped 
the  Rocks  and  that  was  all." 

Pepperrill  was  thankful  enough  to  see  the  Cap- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

tain  and  his  squadron, — it  was  four  ships  now,  as 
the  schooner  had  picked  up  another  frigate  for 
him, — but  the  two  commanders  were  destined  to 
rub  each  other  very  much  the  wrong  way  be- 
fore they  were  through.  Pepperrill  was  a  man 
who  took  risks  only  very  solemnly  and  with  de- 
liberation, and  who  was  blessed  with  endless 
patience.  Warren  took  risks  with  as  much  zest 
as  he  took  rare  food  and  rich  wine,  and  in  his 
swift,  full  and  exciting  life  there  had  never  been 
place  or  time  for  patience!  When  the  siege  ac- 
tually commenced,  the  poor  Captain  nearly  went 
wild  with  the  inaction.  He  wanted  to  attack,  to 
move,  to  do  something.  Pepperrill's  calm  judg- 
ment and  slow  tactics  drove  him  distracted,  and 
they  were  forever  at  odds  in  spite  of  a  secret 
respect  for  each  other.  In  speaking  of  the  con- 
trast between  them,  Parkman,  after  describing 
Pepperrill's  careful  management  of  the  military 
end,  says:  "Warren  was  no  less  earnest  than  he 
for  the  success  of  the  enterprise.  .  .  .  But  in 
habits  and  character  the  two  men  differed  widely. 
Warren  was  in  the  prime  of  life,  and  the  ardour 
of  youth  still  burned  within  him.  He  was  im- 
patient at  the  slow  movement  of  the  siege." 

The  Siege  of  Louisbourg  started  by  Warren's 
and  Pepperrill's  demand  that  the  fortress  sur- 
render, and  the  historic  answer  of  Duchambon, 

-i-88-n- 


GALLANT  CAREER  OF  SIR  PETER  WARREN 

the  French  commander,  that  they  should  have 
their  answer  from  the  cannon's  mouth.  It  is  not 
my  purpose  to  tell  of  it  in  detail,  for  it  lasted 
forty-seven  days  and  strained  the  nerves  of  every- 
one to  the  breaking  point.  But  one  or  two  things 
happened  in  the  time  which,  to  my  mind,  make 
our  Captain  seem  a  very  human  person.  There 
was,  for  instance,  his  amazing  kindness,  as  un- 
failing to  his  captives  as  to  his  own  men.  When 
the  great  French  man-of-war  Vigilant  came  to 
the  aid  of  the  beleaguered  fortress,  Warren  joy- 
ously captured  the  monster,  in  full  sight  of 
Louisbourg  and  under  the  big  guns  there.  It 
was  this  incident,  by  the  bye,  for  which  he  was 
knighted  afterwards.  The  French  captain, 
Marquis  de  la  Maisonfort,  who  was  Warren's 
prisoner,  wrote  in  a  letter  to  Duchambon:  "The 
Captain  and  officers  of  this  squadron  treat  us,  not 
as  their  prisoners,  but  as  their  good  friends." 

Warren  went  wild  with  rage  when  he  heard  of 
the  horrors  that  had  befallen  an  English  scouting 
party  which  had  fallen  into  the  hands  of  a  band 
of  Indians  and  Frenchmen,  and  hideously  tor- 
tured. He  wrote  stern  protests  to  Duchambon, 
and  it  was  at  this  time  that  he  urged  Pepperrill 
most  earnestly  to  attack.  But  the  more  phleg- 
matic officer  could  not  see  it  in  that  way.  War- 
ren then  argued  with  increasing  heat  that  by  this 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

time  the  French  reinforcements  must  be  near, 
and  could  easily  steal  up  under  cover  of  the  fog 
which  was  thick  there  every  night.  When  Pep- 
perrill  still  objected  he  lost  his  temper  entirely, 
and  said  and  wrote  a  number  of  peppery  things. 
"  I  am  sorry,"  he  said,  "  that  no  one  plan,  though 
approved  by  all  my  captains,  has  been  so  fortunate 
as  to  meet  your  approbation  or  have  any  weight 
with  you ! " 

Pepperrill  explained  imperturbably  that  War- 
ren was  trying  to  take  too  much  authority  upon 
himself.  Captain  Peter  sent  him  a  furious  note: 
"  I  am  sorry  to  find  a  kind  of  jealousy  which  I 
thought  you  would  never  conceive  of  me.  And 
give  me  leave  to  tell  you  I  don't  want  at  this  time 
to  acquire  reputation,  as  I  flatter  myself  mine 
has  been  pretty  well  established  long  before!" 

And  then,  as  full  of  temper  as  a  hot-headed 
schoolboy,  he  brought  out  a  letter  from  Governor 
Shirley  expressing  regret  that  Captain  Warren 
could  not  take  command  of  the  whole  affair, — 
"  which  I  doubt  not  would  be  a  most  happy  event 
for  His  Majesty's  service." 

Even  this  could  not  shake  the  General's  super- 
human calm.  He  was  indeed  so  quiet  about  it, 
and  so  uniformly  polite,  that  his  fiery  associate 
was  simply  obliged  to  cool  off.  He  was  of  too 
genuinely  fine  fibre  to  bear  a  grudge  or  to  make 

-*-  90  -*- 


GALLANT  CAREER  OF  SIR  PETER  WARREN 

a  hard  situation  harder,  and  he  consented  to 
compromise,  saying  truly  that  at  such  times  it  was 
"  necessary  not  to  Stickle  at  Trifles!  " 

At  last  the  time  came  for  action,  and  on  the 
seventeenth  of  June  they  took  Louisbourg,  in  a 
most  brilliant  and  stirring  manner,  and  Warren 
was  so  wild  with  delight  that  he  could  not  con- 
tain himself.  He  scribbled  a  note  to  Pepperrill 
which  sounds  like  the  note  of  a  rattle-pated  col- 
lege lad  instead  of  a  distinguished  naval  com- 
mander: "  We  will  soon  keep  a  good  house  to- 
gether, and  give  the  Ladys  of  Louisbourg  a  gal- 
lant Ball." 

He  probably  gave  that  ball,  too,  though  there 
doesn't  seem  to  be  any  record  of  it.  He  cer- 
tainly had  a  beautiful  time  going  about  making 
speeches  to  the  troops,  amid  much  cheering;  and 
dispensing  casks  of  rum  in  which  to  drink  his 
health  and  King  George's!  He  was  made  the 
English  Governor  of  the  fortress  temporarily,  and 
when  the  news  of  their  capture  reached  England 
both  commanders  were  knighted  and  Peter  War- 
ren was  made  Rear  Admiral  of  the  Blue. 

And  in  the  height  of  the  excitement  a  ship 
arrived  at  Louisbourg  one  fine  day  bearing 
Susanna  herself,  who  had  come  in  person  to  see 
that  the  hero  of  the  day  was  really  safe  and  sound! 

A  letter  written  from  Louisbourg  on  Septem- 
-j-  91  -*- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

her  a^th,  and  published  in  the  Weekly  Post  Boy, 
gives  this  account: 

"  .  .  .  The  King  has  made  the  General  a 
baronet  of  Great  Britain;  and  'tis  said  Mr.  War- 
ren will  be  one  also,  who  is  recommended  by  the 
Lords  Justices  to  the  King  of  Governor  of  this 
Place,  and  is  made  Rear  Admiral  of  the  Blue: 
He  hoisted  his  Flag  yesterday  Afternoon  on  the 
Superbe,  when  he  was  saluted  by  the  Ships  in 
the  Harbour,  and  the  Grand  Battery." 

Soon  after, — if  we  may  trust  James  Grant  Wil- 
son's history, — he  did  indeed  receive  the  Order  of 
the  Bath,  and  so  henceforward  we  must  give  him 
his  title, — Admiral  Sir  Peter  Warren,  no  less! 
After  he  came  home  from  Louisbourg,  the  city 
of  New  York  was  so  well  pleased  with  him  that 
the  council  voted  him  some  extra  land, — which 
he  really  did  not  need  in  the  least,  having  plenty 
already. 

At  least  one  more  exploit  was  to  be  added  to 
the  wreath  of  Peter  Warren's  brave  enterprises 
in  behalf  of  his  King  and  country.  In  1747  the 
French  again  became  troublesome.  A  fleet  of 
French  men-of-war  under  one  La  Jonquiere,  an 
able  commander,  was  ordered  to  go  and  retake 
Louisbourg, — that,  at  least,  among  other  things. 

•*-  92  -*- 


GALLANT  CAREER  OF  SIR  PETER  WARREN 

Sir  Peter  went  to  join  the  English  commander, 
Anson,  off  Cape  Finisterre, —  (the  "End  of  the 
Earth  ")  and  acquitted  himself  there  so  gallantly 
and  effectively  that  again  his  country  rang  with 
praise  of  him, — his  country  which  then  lay  on  two 
sides  of  the  sea.  America's  pride  in  him  is  shown 
by  some  of  the  comments  in  the  New  York 
press,  after  he  had  so  brilliantly  helped  in  the 
capture  of  La  Jonquiere's  ships.  Here  is,  for  in- 
stance, one  letter  from  an  eyewitness  which  was 
printed  in  the  New  York  Gazette,  August  31, 
1747: 

"  I  have  the  Honour  to  send  you  some  Particu- 
lars concerning  the  late  Engagement  on  3rd  In- 
stant off  Cape  Finisterre;  which,  tho'  in  the 
greatest  degree  conducive  to  the  Success  of  that 
glorious  Day,  yet  have  not  been  once  mentioned 
in  the  publick  Papers.  .  .  .  You  may  be  sur- 
priz'd,  Sir,  when  I  assert,  that  out  of  the  formi- 
dable English  Squadron,  but  seven  Ships  were 
engag'd  properly  speaking.  Concerning  the  Gal- 
lantry of  three  of  them,  which  were  the  Head- 
most Ships,  you  have  already  had  publick  ac- 
counts; and  my  intention  by  this,  is  to  warm  your 
hearts  with  an  Account  of  the  Behaviour  of  two 
others,  the  Devonshire,  Admiral  Warren's  Ship, 
and  the  Bristol,  commanded  by  Capt.  Montague." 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

The  letter  goes  on  to  describe  the  battle 
minutely,  telling  how  Warren  came  boldly  up  to 
the  French  Commodore's  ship,  and  attacked  her, 
" — And,  having  receiv'd  her  fire,  as  terrible  a 
one  as  ever  I  saw,  ran  up  within  Pistol-shot  and 
then  returned  it,  and  continued  a  brisk  fire  till 
the  enemy  struck."  Then,  he  continues,  Warren 
"  made  up  to  the  Invincible  "  and  attacked  her, 
later  seconded  by  Montague.  Anson,  the  com- 
manding Admiral,  he  adds  rather  drily,  was  at 
least  a  mile  astern. 

In  the  same  edition  of  the  paper  which  prints 
this  letter,  we  find  a  little  side  light  on  the  way 
in  which  Lady  Warren  spent  her  days  when  her 
magnificent  husband  was  away  at  the  wars.  Be- 
tween an  advertisement  of  "  Window  Crown- 
Glass  just  over  from  England,"  and  "  A  Likely 
Strong  Negro  Wench,  fit  for  either  Town  or 
Country  Business,  to  be  sold,"  we  find  a  crisp  lit- 
tle paragraph: 

"  All  Persons  that  have  any  Demands  on  the 
Honourable  Sir  Peter  Warren,  are  desired  to 
carry  their  accounts  to  his  Lady,  to  be  adjusted, 
and  receive  Payment." 

Sir  Peter  was,  as  we  have  seen,  not  a  person 
who  could  sit  still  and  peacefully  do  nothing. 


GALLANT  CAREER  OF  SIR  PETER  WARREN 

Inactivity  was  always  a  horror  to  him;  even  his 
domestic  happiness  and  his  wholesome  joy  in  his 
wife  and  daughters  could  not  entirely  fill  his  life 
when  he  was  not  at  sea.  His  first  naive  and 
childish  pleasure  in  his  immense  fortune  was  an 
old  story,  and  the  King  couldn't  provide  a  battle 
for  him  every  moment.  The  real  events  of  his 
life  were  war  cruises,  but  in  between  he  began 
to  take  a  hand  in  the  politics  of  New  York.  He 
was  high  in  favour  with  the  English  Throne — 
with  some  reason,  we  must  admit — and  he  didn't 
mind  stating  the  fact  with  the  candour  and  doubt- 
less the  pride  of  a  child  of  nature,  as  well  as — 
who  knows? — a  touch  of  arrogance,  as  became 
a  man  of  the  world,  and  an  English  one  to 
boot! 

His  brother-in-law,  James  de  Lancey,  was 
Chief  Justice,  and  at  sword's  point  with  Clinton, 
the  Governor  of  New  York.  De  Lancey  boasted 
politely  but  openly  that  he  and  Sir  Peter  had 
twice  as  much  influence  in  England  as  had  Clin- 
ton, which  was  probably  quite  true.  Clinton  was 
desperately  afraid  of  them  both.  Just  when  Clin- 
ton felt  he  was  making  a  little  headway  Warren 
was  called  to  London  to  enter  Parliament  as  the 
member  for  Westminster.  This  gave  him  more 
prestige  than  ever,  and  the  Governor  moved 
heaven  and  earth  to  discredit  him  in  the  eyes 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

of  the  Lords  of  Trade  in  London.  But  just  then 
heaven  and  earth  were  personified  by  the  British 
Crown  and  Court,  and  they  turned  deaf  ears  to 
Clinton  and  listened  kindly  to  the  naval  hero 
who  had  made  himself  so  prime  a  favourite. 
Clinton  firmly  expected  and  fervently  feared  that 
Warren's  influence  would  mean  his  eventful  over- 
throw and  not  until  our  hero's  death  did  he  ever 
draw  a  breath  that  was  free  from  dread. 

After  the  Revolution  some  of  the  De  Lanceys 
lost  their  lands  because  of  their  loyalty  to  the 
Crown,  but  in  Sir  Peter's  time  the  sun  shone  for 
those  who  stood  by  the  King. 

But  the  day  came  speedily  when  Sir  Peter 
sailed  away  to  return  no  more,  and  I  am  sure 
every  tree  in  Greenwich  and  every  cobblestone 
in  New  York  mourned  him! 

It  was  in  1747  that  our  hero  was  summoned 
to  London,  to  enter  Parliament  and  from  that 
time  on  was  a  bright  particular  star  in  English 
society.  Known  as  "  the  richest  man  in  Eng- 
land," he  was  a  truly  magnificent  figure  in  a 
magnificent  day.  Lady  Warren,  who  was  still  a 
beauty  and  a  wit,  was  a  great  favourite  at  Court, 
and  writers  of  the  day  declared  her  to  be  the 
cleverest  woman  in  all  England.  Think  of  what 
golden  fortunes  fell  to  the  three  Warren  girls, 
who  were  now  of  marriageable  age! 

-*-  96  -»- 


GALLANT  CAREER  OF  SIR  PETER  WARREN 

They  made  our  old  friend  Peter  Admiral  of 
the  Red  Squadron  as  well  as  an  M.  P.,  and  Lady 
Warren  so  splendidly  brought  out  her  daughters 
that  Charlotte  married  Willoughby,  Earl  of 
Abingdon,  and  Ann  wed  Charles  Fitzroy,  Baron 
Southampton.  The  youngest  girl,  Susanna,  chose 
a  colonel  named  Skinner, — and  New  York,  still 
affectionately  inclined  toward  the  Admiral's 
daughters,  named  streets  after  the  husbands  of 
all  three!  Our  present  Christopher  Street  used 
to  be  Skinner  Road;  Fitzroy  Road  ran  northward, 
near  our  Eighth  Avenue  from  Fourteenth  Street 
far  uptown;  Abingdon  Road,  which  was  known 
colloquially  and  prettily  as  "  Love  Lane,"  was 
far,  far  out  in  the  country  until  much  later,  some- 
where near  Twenty-first  Street  Abingdon  Square 
alone  preserves  one  of  the  old  family  names,  and 
in  Abingdon  Square  I  am  certain  some  of  those 
dear  ghosts  come  to  walk. 

And  still  I  find  that  I  have  not  told  the  half  of 
Sir  Peter's  story!  I  have  not  told  of  his  adven- 
tures in  the  Mohawk  country,  where  he  travelled 
from  sheer  love  of  adventure  and  danger  in  the 
first  place,  and  afterward  established  a  fine  set- 
tlement and  plantation;  of  his  placing  there  his 
sister's  young  son,  William  Johnson,  later  to  be  a 
great  authority  on  matters  pertaining  to  the  In- 
dians, and  how  he  sent  him  out  vast  consignments 

•f-97-*- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

of  "  rum  and  axes,"  to  open  negotiations  with  the 
Mohawks;  how  in  his  letter  to  his  nephew  he 
sounded  a  note  of  true  Irish  blarney,  in  caution- 
ing him  not  to  find  fault  with  the  horses  supplied 
by  a  certain  man,  "  since  he  is  a  relation  of  my 
wife's!"  I  have  not  told  of  his  narrow  escape 
from  the  Indians  on  one  dramatic  occasion;  nor 
of  his  trip  to  the  West  Indies  as  an  envoy  of 
peace;  nor  of  his  services  in  Barbadoes  which 
caused  the  people  thereof  to  present  him  with  a 
gorgeous  silver  monteith,  or  punch-bowl;  nor  of 
the  mighty  dinner  party  he  gave  at  which  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Moody  said  the  historic  grace:  "  Good 
Lord,  we  have  so  much  to  be  thankful  for  that 
time  would  be  infinitely  too  short  to  do  it  in.  We 
must,  therefore,  leave  it  for  eternity.  Amen." 
I  have  said  nothing  of  Sir  Peter's  attack  of  small- 
pox, which  left  his  good-looking  face  badly 
marked,  if  we  can  believe  the  likeness  modelled 
by  Roubilliac;  nor — but  it  would  take  volumes  to 
tell  the  full  and  eventful  story  of  this  brave  and 
gallant-hearted  man,  who  died  when  he  was  only 
forty-eight,  in  the  year  1752.  It  seems  incredible 
that  so  much  could  have  been  crowded  into  so 
short  a  life.  In  death  he  was  honoured  quite  as 
he  deserved,  for  his  tomb  in  the  Abbey  is  a  gor- 
geous and  impressive  one,  and  such  men  as  the 
great  French  sculptor,  and  Dr.  Johnson  himself, 


GALLANT  CAREER  OF  SIR  PETER  WARREN 

had  a  hand  in  making  it  memorable  in  proportion 
to  his  greatness. 

In  looking  over  our  hero's  career  we  are  struck 
by  the  absence  of  shadows.  One  would  say 
that  so  unrelieved  a  record  of  success,  of  honour, 
glory,  love  and  wealth,  so  much  pure  sunshine, 
so  complete  a  lack  of  all  trouble  or  defeat,  must 
make  a  picture  flat  and  characterless,  insipid  in 
its  light,  bright  colours,  insignificant  in  its  deeper 
values.  But  it  is  not  so.  Peter  Warren,  the 
spoiled  child  of  fortune,  was  something  more 
than  a  child  of  fortune,  since  he  won  his  good 
things  of  life  always  at  the  risk  of  that  life  which 
he  enriched;  and  surely,  no  obstinately  fortuitous 
twist  of  circumstances  could  ever  really  spoil 
him. 

His  honestly  heroic  qualities  are  his  passport. 
He  cannot  seem  smug,  nor  colourless,  nor  over- 
prosperous:  he  is  too  vivid  and  too  vigorous. 
His  childish  vanity  is  nobly  discounted  by  his 
childlike  simplicity  in  facing  big  issues.  The 
blue  and  gold  which  he  wore  so  magnificently 
can  never  to  us  be  the  mere  trappings  of  rank: 
they  carry  on  them  the  shadows  of  battle  smoke, 
and  the  rust  of  enviable  wounds.  Let  us  take 
his  memory  then  gladly,  and  with  true  homage, 
rejoicing  that  its  record  of  happiness  appears  as 
stainless  as  its  history  of  honour,  and  well  satisfied 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

to  find  one  picture  in  which  something  of  the 
sunshine  of  high  gallantry  seems  caught,  and  for 
all  time. 

Dr.  Johnson  wrote  thirty  lines  of  eulogy  of 
him,  with  the  nicety  and  distinction  of  phrase 
which  one  would  expect.  Perhaps  the  simple 
ending  of  it  is  most  impressive  of  all;  so  let  us 
make  it  our  own  for  the  occasion: 

"  .    .    .  But  the  ALMIGHTY, 
Whom  alone  he  feared,  and  whose  gracious  pro- 
tection 

He  had  often  experienced, 

Was  pleased  to    remove   him   from   a  place    of 
Honour, 

To  an  eternity  of  happiness, 
On  the  2Qth  day  of  July,  1752, 
In  the  4Qth  year  of  his  age." 


100 


The  Story  of  Richmond  Hill 


CHAPTER  IV 

The  Story  of  Richmond  Hill 

If  my  days  of  fancy  and  romance  were  not  past,  I  could  find 
here  an  ample  field  for  indulgence! — ABIGAIL  ADAMS,  writing 
from  Richmond  Hill  House,  in  1783. 

HAD    left   dear    St.    John's,— for    this 
time   my   pilgrim   feet  were   turned   a 
bit  northward  to  a  shrine  of  romance 
rather    than     religion.       I    meandered 
along  Canal,  and  traversed  Congress  Street.    Con- 
gress, by  the  bye,  is  about  two  yards  long;  do 
you  happen  to  know  it? 

In  a  few  moments,  I  was  standing  in  a  sort  of 
trance  at  that  particular  point  of  Manhattan 
marked  by  the  junction  of  Charlton  and  Varick 
streets  and  the  end  of  Macdougal,  about  two  hun- 
dred feet  north  of  Spring.  And  there  was  noth- 
ing at  all  about  the  scenic  setting,  you  would 
surely  have  said,  to  send  anyone  into  any  kind 
of  a  trance. 

On  one  side  of  me  was  an  open  fruit  stall;  on 
another,    a    butcher's    shop;    the    Cafe    Gorizia 
(with  windows  flagrant  with  pink  confectionery), 
-j-  103  -*- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

and  the  two  regulation  and  indispensable  saloons 
to  make  up  the  four  corners. 

In  a  sentimentally  reminiscent  mood,  I  took 
out  a  notebook,  to  write  down  something  of  my 
impressions  and  fancies.  But  there  was  a  general 
murmur  of  war-inflamed  suspicion,  and  I  de- 
sisted and  fled.  How  was  I  to  tell  them  that 
there,  where  I  stood,  in  that  very  citified  and 
very  nearly  squalid  environment  (it  was  raining 
that  day  too),  I  could  yet  see,  quite  distinctly, 
the  shadowy  outlines  of  the  one-time  glorious 
House  of  Richmond  Hill? 

They  were  high  gates  and  ornate,  one  under- 
stands. I  visualised  them  over  and  against  the 
dull  and  dingy  modern  buildings.  Somewhere 
near  here  where  I  was  standing,  the  great  drive- 
way had  curved  in  between  the  tall,  fretted  iron 
posts,  to  that  lovely  wooded  mound  which  was 
the  last  and  most  southern  of  the  big  Zantberg 
Range,  and  seemingly  of  a  rare  and  rich  soil. 
The  Zantberg,  you  remember,  started  rather  far 
out  in  the  country, — somewhere  about  Clinton 
Place  and  Broadway, — and  ran  south  and  west 
as  far  as  Varick  and  Van  Dam  streets. 

I  had  passed  on  Downing  Street  one  house 
at  least  which  looked  as  though  it  had  been  there 
forever  and  ever,  but  just  here  it  was  most  com- 
monplace and  present-century  in  setting,  and  the 
-*-  104  -*- 


THE  STORY  OF  RICHMOND  HILL 

roar  of  traffic  was  in  my  ears.  But  I  am  sure 
that  I  saw  Richmond  Hill  House  plainly, — that 
distinguished  structure  which  was  described  by 
an  eyewitness  as  "  a  wooden  building  of  massive 
architecture,  with  a  lofty  portico  supported  by 
Ionic  columns,  the  front  walls  decorated  with 
pilasters  of  the  same  order  and  its  whole  appear- 
ance distinguished  by  a  Palladian  character  of 
rich  though  sober  ornament."  We  learn  further 
that  its  entrance  was  broad  and  imposing,  that 
there  were  balconies  fronting  the  rooms  on  the 
second  story.  The  inside  of  the  house  was  spa- 
ciously partitioned,  with  large,  high  rooms,  mas- 
sive stairways  with  fine  mahogany  woodwork,  and 
a  certain  restful  amplitude  in  everything  which 
was  a  feature  of  most  of  the  true  Colonial  houses. 

Thomas  Janvier  quotes  from  some  anonymous 
writer  of  an  earlier  day:  "  From  the  crest  of  this 
small  eminence  was  an  enticing  prospect;  on  the 
south,  the  woods  and  dells  and  winding  road 
from  the  lands  of  Lispenard,  through  the  valley 
where  was  Borrowson's  tavern;  and  on  the  north 
and  west  the  plains  of  Greenwich  Village  made 
up  a  rich  prospect  to  gaze  on." 

Lispenard's  Salt  Meadows  lie  still,  I  suppose, 

under  Canal  Street  North.     I  have  not  been  able 

to   place   exactly   Borrowson's   tavern.      Our   old 

friend,  Minetta  Water,  which  flowed  through  the 

-*-  105  -*- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

site  of  Washington  Square,  made  a  large  pond 
at  the  foot  of  Richmond  Hill, — somewhere  about 
the  present  junction  of  Bedford  and  Downing 
streets.  In  winter  it  offered  wonderful  skating; 
in  summer  it  was  a  dream  of  sylvan  loveliness, 
and  came  to  be  called  Burr's  Pond,  after  that 
enigmatic  genius  who  later  lived  in  the  house. 

One  more  description — and  the  best — of  Rich- 
mond Hill  as  it  was  the  century  before  last; 
this  one  written  by  good  Mistress  Abigail,  wife 
of  John  Adams,  one-time  vice-president  of  the 
United  States,  during  their  occupancy  of  the 
place.  Said  she,  openly  adoring  the  Hill  at  all 
times : 

"  In  natural  beauty  it  might  vie  with  the  most 
delicious  spot  I  ever  saw.  It  is  a  mile  and  a  half 
from  the  city  of  New  York.  The  house  stands 
upon  an  eminence;  at  an  agreeable  distance  flows 
the  noble  Hudson,  bearing  upon  its  bosom  in- 
numerable small  vessels  laden  with  the  fruitful 
productions  of  the  adjacent  country.  Upon  my 
right  hand  are  fields  beautifully  variegated  with 
grass  and  grain,  to  a  great  extent,  like  the  valley 
of  Honiton  in  Devonshire.  Upon  my  left  the 
city  opens  to  view,  intercepted  here  and  there  by 
a  rising  ground  and  an  ancient  oak.  In  front 
beyond  the  Hudson,  the  Jersey  shores  present 

-*-  106  -»• 


THE  STORY  OF  RICHMOND  HILL 

the  exuberance  of  a  rich,  well-cultivated  soil.  In 
the  background  is  a  large  flower-garden,  enclosed 
with  a  hedge  and  some  every  handsome  trees. 
Venerable  oaks  and  broken  ground  covered  with 
wild  shrubs  surround  me,  giving  a  natural  beauty 
to  the  spot  which  is  truly  enchanting.  A  lovely 
variety  of  birds  serenade  me  morning  and  eve- 
ning, rejoicing  in  their  liberty  and  security." 

The  historian,  Mary  L.  Booth,  commenting  on 
the  above,  says: 

"  This  rural  picture  of  a  point  near  where 
Charlton  now  crosses  Varick  Street  naturally 
strikes  the  prosaic  mind  familiar  with  the  locality 
at  the  present  day  as  a  trick  of  the  imagination. 
But  truth  is  stranger,  and  not  infrequently  more 
interesting,  than  fiction." 

And  now  go  back  to  the  beginning. 

A  very  large  section  of  this  part  of  the  island 
was  held  under  the  grant  of  the  Colonial  Gov- 
ernment, by  the  Episcopal  Church  of  the  city 
of  New  York — later  to  be  known  more  succinctly 
as  Trinity  Church  Parish.  St.  John's, — not  built 
at  that  time,  of  course — is  part  of  the  same 
property.  This  particular  portion  (Richmond 
Hill),  as  we  may  gather  from  the  enthusiastic 
-*-  107  -*- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

accounts  of  those  who  had  seen  it,  must  have  been 
peculiarly  desirable.  At  any  rate,  it  appealed 
most  strongly  to  one  Major  Abraham  Mortier, 
at  one  time  commissary  of  the  English  army, 
and  a  man  of  a  good  deal  of  personal  wealth  and 
position. 

In  1760,  Major  Mortier  acquired  from  the 
Church  Corporation  a  big  tract  including  the 
especial  hill  of  his  desires  and,  upon  it,  high 
above  the  green  valleys  and  the  silver  pond,  he 
proceeded  to  put  a  good  part  of  his  considerable 
fortune  into  building  a  house  and  laying  out 
grounds  which  should  be  a  triumph  among  coun- 
try estates. 

That  he  was  a  personage  of  importance  goes 
without  saying,  for  His  Majesty's  forces  had  right 
of  way  in  those  days,  in  all  things  social  as  well 
as  governmental.  He  proceeded  to  entertain 
largely,  as  soon  as  he  had  his  home  ready  for  it, 
and  so  it  was  that  at  that  time  Richmond  Hill 
established  its  deathless  reputation  for  hospitality. 

Mortier  did  not  buy  the  property  outright  but 
got  it  on  a  very  long  lease.  Though  his  first  name 
sounds  Hebraic  and  his  last  Gallic,  he  was,  we 
may  take  it,  a  thoroughly  British  soul,  for  he 
called  it  Richmond  Hill  to  remind  him  of  Eng- 
land. The  people  of  New  York  used  to  gossip 
excitedly  over  the  small  fortune  he  spent  on  those 

•*-  108  -*- 


WASHINGTON  ARCH 

"...  Let  us  hope  that  we  will  always  keep 
Washington  Square  as  it  is  to-day — our  little  and 
dear  bit  of  fine,  concrete  history,  the  one  perfect 
page  of  our  old,  immortal  New  York" 


THE  STORY  OF  RICHMOND  HILL 

grounds,  the  house  was  the  most  pretentious  that 
the  neighbourhood  had  boasted  up  to  that  time. 
Of  course  the  Warren  place  was  much  farther 
north,  and  this  particular  locality  was  only  just 
beginning  to  be  fashionable. 

A  friend  of  the  Commissary's,  and  a  truly  illus- 
trious visitor  at  the  Hill,  was  Sir  Jeffrey  Amherst, 
later  Lord  Amherst.  He  made  Mortier's  house 
his  headquarters  at  the  close  of  his  campaigns 
waged  against  French  power  in  America.  He  is 
really  not  so  well  known  as  he  should  be,  for  in 
those  tangled  beginnings  of  our  country  we  can 
hardly  overestimate  the  importance  of  any  one 
determined  or  strategic  move,  and  it  is  due  to 
Amherst,  very  largely,  that  half  of  the  State  of 
New  York  was  not  made  a  part  of  Canada.  In- 
cidentally, Amherst  College  is  named  for  him. 

The  worthy  Commissary  died,  it  is  believed, 
at  about  the  time  that  trouble  started.  On  April 
1 3th,  in  the  memorable  year  1776,  General  Wash- 
ington made  "  the  Hill "  his  headquarters,  and 
the  house  built  by  the  British  army  official  was 
the  scene  of  some  of  the  most  stirring  conferences 
that  marked  the  beginning  of  the  Revolution. 

At  the  vitally  important  officers'  councils  held 

behind  those  tall,  white  columns,  there  was  one 

man  so  unusual,  so  brilliant,  so  incomprehensible, 

that  a  certain  baffling  interest  if  not  actual  ro- 

-*-  109  -*- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

mance  attaches  itself  automatically  to  the  bare 
utterance  or  inscription  of  his  name, — Aaron 
Burr.  He  was  aide-de-camp  to  General  Putnam, 
and  already  had  a  vivid  record  behind  him.  It 
was  during  Washington's  occupancy  of  Richmond 
Hill  that  Burr  grew  to  love  the  place  which  was 
later  to  be  his  own  home. 

I  confess  to  a  very  definite  weakness  for  Aaron 
Burr.  Few  hopeless  romanticists  escape  it.  Dra- 
matically speaking,  he  is  one  of  the  most  striking 
figures  in  American  history,  and  I  imagine  that  I 
have  not  been  the  first  dreamer  of  dreams  and 
writer  of  books  who  has  haunted  the  scenes  of 
his  flesh-and-blood  activity  in  the  secret,  half- 
shamefaced  hope  of  one  day  happening  upon  his 
ghost! 

From  the  day  of  his  graduation  from  college 
at  sixteen,  he  somehow  contrived  to  win  the  at- 
tention of  everyone  whom  he  came  near.  He 
still  wins  it.  We  love  to  read  of  his  frantic 
rush  to  the  colours,  guardian  or  no  guardian;  of 
the  steel  in  him  which  lifted  him  from  a  bed  of 
fever  to  join  the  Canadian  expedition;  of  his 
daring  exploits  of  espionage  disguised  as  a  French 
Catholic  priest;  of  a  hundred  and  one  similar 
incidents  in  a  life  history  which,  as  we  read  it, 
is  far  too  strange  not  to  be  true. 

Spectacular  he  was  from  his  birth,  and  even 
-*-  no-i- 


THE  STORY  OF  RICHMOND  HILL 

today  his  name  upon  a  page  is  enough  to  set  up 
a  whole  theatre  in  our  imaginations.  Just  one 
incident  comes  to  me  at  this  moment.  It  is  so 
closely  associated  with  the  region  with  which 
this  book  is  concerned,  that  I  cannot  but  set  it 
down  in  passing. 

The  story  runs  that  it  was  a  mistake  in  an  order 
which  sent  General  Knox  of  Silliman's  Brigade 
to  a  small  fort  one  mile  from  town  (that  is,  about 
Grand  Street) ,  known  as  "  Bunker's  Hill  " — not 
to  be  confounded  with  the  other  and  more  famous 
"Bunker"!  It  happened  to  be  a  singularly  un- 
fortunate position.  There  was  neither  food  nor 
water  in  proper  quantities,  and  the  munitions 
were  almost  non-existent.  The  enemy  was  on  the 
island. 

Whether  Major  Burr,  of  Putnam's  division, 
was  sent  under  some  regular  authority,  or  whether 
he  characteristically  had  taken  the  matter  into 
his  own  hands,  the  histories  I  have  read  do  not 
tell.  But  they  do  tell  of  his  galloping  up,  breath- 
less on  a  lathered  horse,  making  the  little  force 
understand  the  danger  of  their  position,  pleading 
with  his  inimitable  eloquence  and  advancing  the 
reasons  for  their  retreat  at  once.  The  men  were 
stubborn;  they  did  not  want  to  retreat.  But  he 
talked.  He  proved  that  the  English  could  take 
the  scrap  of  a  fort  in  four  hours;  he  exhorted  and 
•*-  in  -+• 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

urged,  and  at  last  he  won.  They  said  they  would 
follow  him.  From  that  moment  he  took  charge, 
and  led  them  along  the  Greenwich  Road  through 
the  woods,  skirting  the  swamps,  fording  the 
rivers,  to  Harlem,  to  safety  and  to  eventual 
victory. 

This  was  only  one  of  many  instances  in  which 
his  wit,  his  eloquence,  his  good  sense,  his  leader- 
ship and  his  unquestioned  personal  daring  served 
his  country  and  served  her  well. 

When  Washington  moved  his  headquarters  to 
the  Roger  Morris  house  near  the  Point  of  Rocks, 
a  period  of  comparative  mystery  descended  for 
a  time  upon  Richmond  Hill.  During  the  ensuing 
struggle,  and  before  the  formal  evacuation  of 
New  York,  the  house  is  supposed  to  have  been 
occupied  off  and  on  by  British  officers.  But  in 
1783  they  departed  for  good!  and  in  1789,  Vice- 
president  John  Adams  and  Mistress  Abigail  came 
to  live  there. 

We  have  already  read  two  examples  of  Mrs. 
Adams'  enthusiastic  outpourings  in  regard  to 
Richmond  Hill.  She  was,  in  fact,  never  tired 
of  writing  of  it.  A  favourite  quotation  of  hers 
she  always  applied  to  the  place: 

"In  this  path, 
Ho<w  long  soe'er  the  'wanderer  roves,  each  step 

-*-  112  -*- 


THE  STORY  OF  RICHMOND  HILL 

Shall  wake  fresh  beauties;  each  last  point  present 
A  different  picture,  new,  and  each  the  same." 

That  entire  neighbourhood  was  rich  in  game, — 
we  have  already  seen  that  the  Dutch  farmers 
thought  highly  of  the  duck  shooting  near  the 
Sand  Hill  Road,  and  that  Minetta  Brook  was  a 
first-class  fishing  stream.  Birds  of  all  sorts  were 
plentiful,  and  the  Adamses  did  their  best  to  pre- 
serve them  on  their  own  place.  But  too  keen 
sportsmen  were  always  stealing  into  the  Rich- 
mond Hill  grounds  for  a  shot  or  two.  "  Oh,  for 
game  laws!"  was  her  constant  wail.  In  one 
letter  she  declares:  "The  partridge,  the  wood- 
cock and  the  pigeon  are  too  great  temptations  -for 
the  sportsman  to  withstand!" 

And  please  don't  forget  for  one  moment  that 
this  was  at  Charlton  and  Varick  streets! 

The  House  on  the  Hill  was  the  home  of  quite 
ceremonious  entertaining  in  those  days.  John 
Adams,  in  another  land,  would  surely  have  been 
a  courtier — a  Cavalier  rather  than  a  Roundhead. 
John  T.  Morse,  Jr.,  says  that  the  Vice-president 
liked  "  the  trappings  of  authority."  The  same 
historian  declares  that  in  his  advice  to 
President  Washington,  ".  .  .he  talked  of 
dress  and  undress,  of  attendants,  gentlemen- 
in-waiting,  chamberlains,  etc.,  as  if  he  were 
-«-  113  -*- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

arranging  the  household  of  a  European 
monarch." 

Gulian  C.  Verplanck  (sometimes  known  by  the 
nom  de  plume  of  "  Francis  Herbert"),  wrote  in 
1829,  quite  an  interesting  account  of  Richmond 
Hill  as  he  personally  recalled  it.  He  draws  for 
us  a  graphic  picture  of  a  dinner  party  given  by 
the  Vice-president  and  Mrs.  Adams  for  various 
illustrious  guests. 

After  entering  the  house  by  a  side  door  on  the 
right,  they  mounted  a  broad  staircase  with  a 
heavy  mahogany  railing.  Dinner  was  served  in 
a  large  room  on  the  second  floor  with  Venetian 
windows  and  a  door  opening  out  onto  the  balcony 
under  the  portico.  And  then  he  gives  us  these 
vivid  little  vignettes  of  those  who  sat  at  the  great 
table: 

In  the  centre  sat "  Vice-president  Adams  in  full 
dress,  with  his  bag  and  solitaire,  his  hair  frizzed 
out  each  side  of  his  face  as  you  see  it  in  Stuart's 
older  pictures  of  him.  On  his  right  sat  Baron 
Steuben,  our  royalist  republican  disciplinarian 
general.  On  his  left  was  Mr.  Jefferson,  who  had 
just  returned  from  France,  conspicuous  in  his  red 
waistcoat  and  breeches,  the  fashion  of  Versailles. 
Opposite  sat  Mrs.  Adams,  with  her  cheerful,  in- 
telligent face.  She  was  placed  between  the  Count 
du  Moustier,  the  French  Ambassador,  in  his  red- 
-*-  114-*- 


THE  STORY  OF  RICHMOND  HILL 

heeled  shoes  and  earrings,  and  the  grave,  polite, 
and  formally  bowing  Mr.  Van  Birket,  the  learned 
and  able  envoy  of  Holland.  There,  too,  was 
Chancellor  Livingston,  then  still  in  the  prime 
of  life,  so  deaf  as  to  make  conversation  with  him 
difficult,  yet  so  overflowing  with  wit,  eloquence 
and  information  that  while  listening  to  him  the 
difficulty  was  forgotten.  The  rest  were  members 
of  Congress,  and  of  our  Legislature,  some  of  them 
no  inconsiderable  men.  Being  able  to  talk 
French,  a  rare  accomplishment  in  America  at  that 
time,  a  place  was  assigned  to  me  next  the  count." 
Verplanck  goes  on  to  describe  the  dinner.  He 
says  that  it  was  a  very  grand  affair,  bountiful  and 
elaborately  served,  but  the  French  Ambassador 
would  taste  nothing.  He  took  a  spoonful  or  two 
of  soup  but  refused  everything  else  "  from  the 
roast  beef  down  to  the  lobsters."  Everyone  was 
concerned,  for  that  was  a  day  of  trenchermen, 
and  only  serious  illness  kept  people  from  eating 
their  dinners.  At  last  the  door  opened  and  his 
own  private  chef, — quaintly  described  by  Ver- 
planck as  "  his  body-cook," — rushed  into  the 
room  pushing  the  waiters  right  and  left  before 
him,  and  placed  triumphantly  upon  the  table  an 
immense  pie  of  game  and  truffles,  still  hot  from 
the  oven.  This  obviously  had  been  planned  as 
a  pleasant  surprise  for  the  hosts.  Du  Moustier 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

took  a  small  helping  himself  and  divided  the 
rest  among  the  others.  The  chronicler  adds,  "  I 
can  attest  to  the  truth  of  the  story  and  the  excel- 
lence of  the  pate!" 

No  one  doubts  the  courteous  intentions  of  the 
Count,  but  something  tells  me  that  that  excellent 
housewife  and  incomparable  hostess,  Mistress 
Adams,  was  not  enchanted  by  the  unexpected 
addition  to  her  delicious  and  carefully  planned 
menu! 

It  is  Verplanck,  by  the  bye,  who  has  put  in  a 
peculiarly  succinct  way  one  of  the  most  signal 
characteristics  of  New  York — its  lightning-like 
evolution. 

"  In  this  city  especially,"  he  says,  "  the  progress 
of  a  few  years  effect  what  in  Europe  is  the  work 
of  centuries."  A  shrewd  and  happily  tongued 
observer,  is  Mr.  Verplanck;  we  shall  have  occa- 
sion, I  believe,  to  refer  to  him  again. 

The  Adams'  occupancy  of  Richmond  Hill 
House  was,  we  must  be  convinced,  a  very  happy 
one.  It  was  a  house  of  a  flexible  and  versatile 
personality,  a  beautiful  home,  an  important  head- 
quarters of  many  state  affairs,  a  brilliant  social 
nucleus.  Washington  and  his  wife  often  went 
there  to  call  in  their  beloved  post-chaise,  and  there 
was  certainly  no  dignitary  of  the  time  and  the 
place  who  was  not  at  one  time  or  another  a  guest 
-*-  116  -*- 


THE  STORY  OF  RICHMOND  HILL 

there.  In  the  course  of  time,  the  Adamses  went 
to  a  new  and  fine  dwelling  at  Bush  Hill  on  the 
Schuylkill.  And  dear  Mistress  Abigail,  faithful 
to  the  house  of  her  heart,  wrote  wistfully  of  her 
just-acquired  home: 

"  It  is  a  beautiful  place,  but  the  grand  and 
sublime  I  left  at  Richmond  Hill "... 

In  1797,  the  house  went  to  a  rich  foreigner 
named  Temple.  I  quote  the  chronicles  of  old 
New  York,  but  can  give  you  little  information 
concerning  this  gentleman.  The  only  thing  at 
all  memorable  or  interesting  about  him  seems  to 
have  been  the  fact  that  he  was  robbed  of  a  large 
quantity  of  money  and  valuables  while  at  the 
Hill,  that  the  thieves  were  never  discovered  and 
that  for  this  reason  at  least  he  filled  the  local  press 
for  quite  a  time.  His  occupancy  seems  to  have 
been  short,  and,  save  for  the  robbery,  uneventful 
(if  he  really  was  a  picturesque  and  adventurous 
soul,  I  humbly  ask  pardon  of  his  ghost,  but  this 
is  all  I  can  find  out  about  him!) — for  it  was  in 
that  self-same  year  that  the  Burrs  came  to  live 
at  Richmond  Hill,  and  Temple  passed  into  ob- 
scurity as  far  as  New  York  history  is  concerned. 

Mrs.  Burr,  that  older  Theodosia  who  was  the 
idol  of  Aaron  Burr's  life,  had  died  three  years 
•*-  117  -*• 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

before,  and  little  Theo  was  now  the  head  of  his 
household.  Have  you  ever  read  the  letters  that 
passed  between  these  three,  by  the  bye?  They 
are  so  quaint,  so  human,  so  tender — I  believe  that 
you  will  agree  with  me  that  such  reading  has 
more  of  charm  in  it  than  the  most  dramatic  mod- 
ern novel.  They  bemoan  their  aches  and  pains 
and  cheer  each  other  up  as  though  they  were  all 
little  Theo's  age.  "  Passed  a  most  tedious  night," 
writes  Mrs.  Burr,  and  adds  that  she  has  bought 
a  pound  of  green  tea  for  two  dollars!  And— 
"  Ten  thousand  loves.  Toujours  la  votre  Theo- 
dosia." 

Burr  writes  that  he  has  felt  indisposed,  but  is 
better,  thanks  to  a  draught  "  composed  of  lauda- 
num, nitre  and  other  savoury  drugs."  When  their 
letters  do  not  arrive  promptly  they  are  in  despair. 
"Stage  after  stage  without  a  line!"  complains 
Theodosia  the  mother,  in  one  feverishly  inco- 
herent note.  And  Theodosia  the  daughter,  even 
at  nine  years  old,  had  her  part  in  this  corre- 
spondence. 

Her  father  writes  her  that  from  the  writing  on 
her  last  envelope,  he  thought  the  letter  must  come 
from  some  "great  fat  fellow"!  He  advises  her 
to  write  a  little  smaller,  and  says  he  loves  to  hear 
from  her.  Then  he  whimsically  reproaches  her 
for  not  saying  a  word  about  his  last  letter  to  her, 


THE  STORY  OF  RICHMOND  HILL 

nor  answering  a  single  one  of  his  questions: 
"That  is  not  kind — it  is  scarcely  civil!" 

When  little  Theodosia  was  eleven  her  mother 
died,  and  henceforward  she  was  her  father's 
housekeeper  and  dearest  companion.  She  is  said 
to  have  been  beautiful,  brilliant  and  fascinating 
even  from  her  babyhood,  and  certainly  the  way  in 
which  she  took  charge  of  Richmond  Hill  at  the 
age  of  fourteen  would  have  done  credit  to  a 
woman  with  at  least  another  decade  to  her  credit. 

Burr  had  a  beautiful  city  house  besides  the  one 
on  the  Hill,  but  he  and  Theo  both  preferred  the 
country  place,  and  they  entertained  there  as  lav- 
ishly as  the  Adamses  before  them.  Burr  had  a 
special  affection  for  the  French,  and  his  house 
was  always  hospitably  open  to  the  expatriated 
aristocrats  during  the  French  Revolution.  Vol- 
ney  stopped  with  him,  and  Talleyrand,  and  Louis 
Philippe  himself.  Among  the  Americans  his 
most  constant  guests  were  Dr.  Hosack,  the 
Clintons,  and,  oddly  enough,  Alexander  Hamil- 
ton! Hamilton,  one  imagines,  found  Burr  per- 
sonally interesting,  though  he  had  small  use  for 
his  politics,  and  warned  people  against  him  as 
being  that  dangerous  combination:  a  daring  and 
adventurous  spirit,  quite  without  conservative 
principles  or  scruples. 

Burr  is  described  by  one  biographer  as  being 
-«-  119  -*- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

"  a  well-dressed  man,  polite  and  confident,  with 
hair  powdered  and  tied  in  a  queue."  He  stooped 
slightly,  and  did  not  move  with  the  grace  or  ease 
one  would  have  expected  from  so  experienced  a 
soldier,  but  he  had  "  great  authority  of  manner," 
and  was  uniformly  "  courtly,  witty  and  charm- 
ing." During  one  of  those  legal  battles  in  which 
he  had  only  one  rival  (Hamilton)  it  was  re- 
ported of  him  that  "  Burr  conducted  the  trial 
with  the  dignity  and  impartiality  of  an  angel 
but  with  the  rigour  of  a  devil ! " 

Gen.  Prosper  M.  Wetmore,  who  adores  his 
memory  and  can  find  extenuation  for  anything 
and  everything  he  did,  writes  this  charming 
tribute : 

"Born,  as  it  seemed,  to  adorn  society;  rich  in 
knowledge;  brilliant  and  instructive  in  conversa- 
tion; gifted  with  a  charm  of  manner  that  was 
almost  irresistible;  he  was  the  idol  of  all  who 
came  within  the  magic  sphere  of  his  friendship 
and  his  social  influence." 

His  enthusiastic  historians  fail  to  add  that, 
though  he  does  not  seem  to  have  been  at  all  hand- 
some, he  was  always  profoundly  fascinating  to 
women.  It  is  doubtful  (in  spite  of  his  second 
marriage  at  seventy  odd)  if  he  ever  loved  anyone 

-*-  1 20  -*- 


THE  STORY  OF  RICHMOND  HILL 

very  deeply  after  his  wife  Theodosia's  death,  but 
it  is  very  certain  indeed  that  a  great,  great  many 
loved  him! 

Richmond  Hill  was  the  scene  of  one  exceed- 
ingly quaint  incident  during  the  very  first  year 
that  Burr  and  his  young  daughter  lived  in  it. 

Burr  was  in  Philadelphia  on  political  business, 
and  fourteen-year-old  Theo  was  in  charge  in  the 
great  house  on  the  Hill  a  mile  and  a  half  from 
New  York.  Imagine  any  modern  father  leaving 
his  little  girl  behind  in  a  more  or  less  remote 
country  place  with  a  small  army  of  servants  under 
her  and  full  and  absolute  authority  over  them 
and  herself!  But  I  take  it  that  there  are  not 
many  modern  little  girls  like  Theodosia  Burr. 
Certainly  there  are  very  few  who  could  translate 
the  American  Constitution  into  French,  and 
Theo  did  that  while  she  was  still  a  slip  of  a  girl, 
merely  to  please  her  adored  father! 

Which  is  a  digression. 

In  some  way  Burr  had  made  the  acquaintance 
of  the  celebrated  Indian  Chief  of  the  Mohawks, 
Tha-yen-da-ne-gea.  He  was  intelligent,  educated 
and  really  a  distinguished  orator,  and  Burr  took 
a  great  fancy  to  him.  The  Chief  had  adopted 
an  American  name, — Joseph  Brant, — and  had  ac- 
quired quite  a  reputation.  He  was  en  route  for 
Washington,  but  anxious  to  see  New  York  before 

.-*-  121  -*- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

he  went.     So  Burr  sent  him  to  Richmond  Hill, 
and  gave  him  a  letter  to  present  to  Theo,  saying 
that  his  daughter  would  take  care  of  him! 
The  letter  runs : 

"...  This  will  be  handed  to  you  by  Colonel 
Brant,  the  celebrated  Indian  Chief.  .  .  .  He  is 
a  man  of  education.  .  .  .  Receive  him  with  re- 
spect and  hospitality.  He  is  not  one  of  those 
Indians  who  drink  rum,  but  is  quite  a  gentleman; 
not  one  who  will  make  you  fine  bows,  but  one 
who  understands  and  practises  what  belongs  to 
propriety  and  good-breeding.  He  has  daughters 
— if  you  could  think  of  some  little  present  to  send 
to  one  of  them  (a  pair  of  earrings  for  example) 
it  would  please  him.  ..." 

Even  the  prodigiously  resourceful  Theo  was  a 
bit  taken  aback  by  this  sudden  proposition.  In 
the  highly  cosmopolitan  circle  that  she  was  used 
to  entertaining,  she  so  far  had  encountered  no 
savages,  and,  in  common  with  most  young  people, 
she  thought  of  "Brant"  as  a  fierce  barbarian 
who, — her  father's  letter  notwithstanding, — prob- 
ably carried  a  tomahawk  and  would  dance  a  war 
dance  in  the  stately  hallway  of  Richmond  Hill. 

In  her  letter  to  her  father,  written  after  she 
had  met  Brant  and  made  him  welcome,  she  ad- 

•*-  122  -*- 


THE  STORY  OF  RICHMOND  HILE 

mitted  that  she  had  been  paramountly  worried 
about  what  she  ought  to  give  him  to  eat.  She 
declared  that  her  mind  was  filled  with  wild  ideas 
of  (and  she  quotes) : 

'  The  Cannibals  that  each  other  eat, 
The  anthropophagi,  and  men  whose  heads 
Do  grow  beneath  their  shoulders!' 

She  had,  she  confesses,  a  vague  notion  that  all 
savages  ate  human  beings,  and, — though  this 
obviously  was  intended  as  a  touch  of  grisly 
humour, — had  half  a  notion  to  procure  a  human 
head  and  have  it  served  up  in  state  after  the 
mediaeval  fashion  of  serving  boars'  heads  in  Old 
England! 

However,  she  presented  him  with  a  most  up- 
to-date  and  epicurean  banquet,  and  had  the  wit 
and  good  taste  to  include  in  her  dinner  party 
such  representative  men  as  Bishop  Moore,  Dr. 
Bard  and  her  father's  good  friend  Dr.  Hosack, 
the  surgeon. 

When  the  party  was  over  she  wrote  Burr  quite 
enthusiastically  about  the  Indian  Chief,  and  de- 
clared him  to  have  been  "  a  most  Christian  and 
civilised  guest  in  his  manners!" 

There  were  no  ladies  at  Theo's  'dinner  party. 
She  lived  so  much  among  men,  and  so  early 
-*-  123  -j- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

learned  to  take  her  place  as  hostess  and  woman 
that  I  imagine  she  would  have  had  small  patience 
with  the  patronage  and  counsel  of  older  members 
of  her  sex.  That  she  was  extravagantly  popular 
with  men  old  and  young  is  proved  in  many  ways. 
Wherever  she  went  she  was  a  belle.  Whether  the 
male  beings  she  met  chanced  to  be  young  and 
stupid  or  old  and  wise,  there  was  something  for 
them  to  admire  in  Theo,  for  she  was  both  beau- 
tiful and  witty,  and  she  had  something  of  her 
father's  "  confidence  of  manner  "  which  won  ad- 
herents right  and  left. 

Mayor  Livingston  took  her  on  board  a  frigate 
in  the  harbour  one  day,  and  warned  her  to  leave 
her  usual  retainers  behind. 

"  Now,  Theodosia,"  he  admonished  her  with 
affectionate  raillery,  "  you  must  bring  none  of 
your  sparks  on  board!  They  have  a  magazine 
there,  and  we  should  all  be  blown  up! " 

In  1801,  when  she  was  eighteen  years  old,  the 
lovely  Theo  married  Joseph  Alston,  an  immensely 
rich  rice  planter  from  South  Carolina,  owner  of 
more  than  a  thousand  slaves,  and  at  one  time 
governor  of  his  state.  Though  she  went  to  the 
South  to  live,  she  never  could  bear  to  sever  en- 
tirely her  relations  with  Richmond  Hill.  It  is 
a  curious  fact  that  everyone  who  ever  lived  there 
loved  it  best  of  all  the  places  in  the  world. 

-j-  124  -j- 


THE  STORY  OF  RICHMOND  HILL 

One  year  after  her  marriage  Theo  came  on  to 
New  York  for  a  visit — I  suppose  she  stopped  at 
her  father's  town  house,  since  it  was  in  spring, 
and  before  the  country  places  would  naturally  be 
open.  At  all  events  it  was  during  this  visit  that, 
fresh  from  her  rice  fields  (which  never  agreed 
with  her),  she  wrote  in  a  letter: 

".  .  .1  have  just  returned  from  a  ride  in  the 
country  and  a  visit  to  Richmond  Hill.  Never 
did  I  behold  this  island  so  beautiful.  The  variety 
of  vivid  greens,  the  finely  cultivated  fields  and 
gardens,  the  neat,  cool  air  of  the  cit's  boxes  peep- 
ing through  straight  rows  of  tall  poplars,  and  the 
elegance  of  some  gentlemen's  seats,  commanding 
a  view  of  the  majestic  Hudson,  and  the  high,  dark 
shores  of  New  Jersey,  altogether  form  a  scene  so 
lovely,  so  touching,  and  to  me  so  new,  that  I 
was  in  constant  rapture." 

In  1804  came  the  historic  quarrel  between 
Aaron  Burr  and  Alexander  Hamilton.  Since 
this  chapter  is  the  story  of  Richmond  Hill  and 
not  the  life  of  Aaron  Burr,  I  shall  not  concern 
myself  with  the  whys  or  the  wherefores  of  that 
disastrous  affair. 

Histories  must  perforce  deal  with  the  political 
aims,  successes  and  failures  of  men;  must  cover  a 

H-   125  -t- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

big  canvas  and  sing  a  large  and  impersonal  song. 
But  just  here  we  have  only  to  think  of  these  old- 
time  phantoms  of  ours  as  they  affect  or  are 
affected  by  the  old-time  regions  in  which  for  the 
nonce  we  are  interested.  To  Richmond  Hill— 
with  its  white  columns  and  shadow-flinging  por- 
tico, its  gardens  and  its  oak  trees  and  its  silver 
pond — it  was  of  small  import  that  the  master 
just  missed  being  President  of  the  United  States, 
that  he  did  become  Vice-president,  and  President 
of  the  Senate,  and  that  he  was  probably  as  able 
a  jurist  as  ever  distinguished  the  Bar  of  New 
York;  also  that  he  made  almost  as  many  enemies 
as  he  did  friends.  But  it  was  decidedly  the  con- 
cern of  the  sweet  and  imposing  old  house  on 
Richmond  Hill  that  it  was  from  its  arms,  so  to 
speak,  that  he  went  out  in  a  cold,  white  rage 
to  the  duel  with  his  chief  enemy;  that  he  returned, 
broken  and  heartsick,  doubly  defeated  in  that  he 
had  chanced  to  be  the  victor,  to  the  protection 
of  Richmond  Hill. 

I  cannot  help  believing  that  the  household 
gods  of  a  man  take  a  very  special  interest  and  a 
very  personal  part  in  what  fortunes  befall  him. 
More  than  any  deities  of  old,  they  live  with  and 
in  him;  they  at  once  go  forth  with  him  to  battle, 
and  welcome  him  home.  I  can  conceive  of  some 
hushed  and  gracious  home-spirit  walking  restless 

-»-   126  -H- 


THE  STORY  OF  RICHMOND  HILL 

by  night  because  the  heart  and  head  of  the  house 
was  afar  or  in  danger.  And  a  house  so  charged 
with  personality  as  that  on  Richmond  Hall  must 
have  had  many  a  ghost, — of  fireside  and  of 
garden  close, — who  wept  for  fallen  fortunes  as 
they  had  rejoiced  for  gaiety  and  bright  enter- 
prise. 

Aaron  Burr  and  Alexander  Hamilton  were 
born  antagonists:  their  personalities,  their  ideals, 
their  methods,  were  as  diverse  and  as  implacably 
divergent  as  the  poles.  Hamilton,  as  a  statesman, 
believed  that  Burr  was  dangerous;  and  so  he  was: 
sky  rockets  and  geniuses  usually  are.  Hamilton 
did  his  brilliant  best  to  destroy  the  other's  power 
(it  was  chiefly  due  to  his  efforts  that  Burr  missed 
the  Presidency),  and,  being  a  notably  courageous 
man,  he  was  not  afraid  to  go  on  warning  America 
against  him. 

And  so  it  all  came  about: — the  exchange  of 
letters — haughty,  courteously  insolent,  utterly  un- 
yielding on  both  sides — then  the  challenge,  and 
finally  the  duel. 

I  am  glad  to  think  that  Theo  Alston  was  safe 
among  her  husband's  rice  fields  at  that  time.  She 
worshipped  her  father,  and  everything  that  hurt 
him  stabbed  her  to  her  devoted  heart. 

It  was  in  an  early,  fragrant  dawn — Friday  the 
sixth  of  July,  1804 — that  Burr  and  his  seconds 
-*-  127  -»- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

left  our  beautiful  Richmond  Hill,  where  the  birds 
were  singing  and  the  pond  just  waking  to  the 
morning  light,  for  Weehawken  Heights  on  the 
Jersey  shore. 

At  about  seven,  Burr  reached  the  ground  which 
had  been  appointed.  Just  after  came  Hamilton 
with  his  seconds,  and  the  surgeon,  Dr.  Hosack. 
The  distance  was  punctiliously  measured,  and 
these  directions  read  solemnly  to  the  princi- 
pals: 

"  The  parties,  being  placed  at  their  stations, 
shall  present  and  fire  when  they  please.  If  one 
fires  before  the  other,  the  opposite  second  shall 
say  i — 2 — 3 — fire;  and  he  shall  then  fire  or  lose 
his  fire." 

Then  came  the  word  "Present!"  from  one  of 
the  witnesses.  Both  duellists  fired  and  Hamilton 
dropped.  Burr  was  untouched.  He  stood  for  a 
second  looking  at  his  fallen  adversary,  and  then 
(as  the  story  goes),  "with  a  gesture  of  profound 
regret,  left  the  ground.  ..." 

Back  to  Richmond  Hill  and  the  troubled  house- 
hold gods.  Burr  was  no  butcher,  and  he  did  not 
dislike  Hamilton  personally.  I  wonder  how 
many  times  he  paced  the  cool  dining-room  with 
the  balcony  outside,  and  how  many  times  he  re- 
fused meat  or  drink,  before  he  despatched  his 
note  to  Dr.  Hosack?  Here  it  is: 

-j-  128  -»- 


THE  STORY  OF  RICHMOND  HILL 

"  Mr.  Burr's  respectful  compliments. — He  re- 
quests Dr.  Hosack  to  inform  him  of  the  present 
state  of  General  H.,  and  of  the  hopes  which 
are  entertained  of  his  recovery. 

"  Mr.  Burr  begs  to  know  at  what  hour  of  the 
day  the  Dr.  may  most  probably  be  found  at  home, 
that  he  may  repeat  his  enquiries.  He  would  take 
it  very  kind  if  the  Dr.  would  take  the  trouble 
of  calling  on  him,  as  he  returns  from  Mr. 
Bayard's." 

On  the  thirteenth,  the  New  York  Herald  pub- 
lished: 

"  With  emotions  that  we  have  not  a  hand  to 
inscribe,  have  we  to  announce  the  death  of 
Alexander  Hamilton. 

"  He  was  suddenly  cut  off  in  the  forty-eighth 
year  of  his  age,  in  the  full  vigour  of  his  faculties 
and  in  the  midst  of  all  his  usefulness." 

The  inquest  which  followed  presented  many 
and  mixed  views.  Samuel  Lorenzo  Knapp,  writ- 
ing in  1835,  and  evidently  a  somewhat  prejudiced 
friend,  says  that  "  the  jury  of  inquest  at  last  were 
reluctantly  dragooned  into  a  return  of  murder." 

Meanwhile,  for  eleven  long  black  days,  Burr 
stayed  indoors  at  Richmond  Hill.  He  was  afraid 
to  go  out,  for  he  knew  that  popular  feeling  was, 
-«-  129  -*- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

in  the  main,  against  him.  Dark  times  for  the 
household  gods!  At  last,  one  starless,  cloudy 
night,  having  heard  of  the  murder  verdict,  he 
stole  away. 

His  faithful  servant  and  friend,  John  Swart- 
wout,  went  with  him,  and  a  small  barge  lay  wait- 
ing for  him  on  the  Hudson  just  below  his  Rich- 
mond Hill  estate,  with  a  discreet  crew.  They 
rowed  all  night,  and  at  breakfast  time,  he  turned 
up  at  the  country  place  of  Commodore  Truxton, 
at  Perth  Amboy. 

Haggard  and  worn,  he  greeted  his  friend  the 
Commodore  with  all  his  usual  sang-froid,  and 
suggested  nonchalantly  that  he  had  "  spent  the 
night  on  the  water,  and  a  dish  of  coffee  would 
not  come  amiss! " 

He  never  went  back  to  Richmond  Hill  to  live 
again,  though  he  later  returned  to  New  York  and 
dwelt  there  for  many  years.  He  went,  for  a 
time,  to  Theo  in  the  South,  fearing  arrest,  but  as 
a  matter  of  fact,  verdict  or  no  verdict,  the  matter 
of  Hamilton's  death  was  never  followed  up.  Burr 
came  calmly  back  to  the  Capitol  and  finished 
his  term  as  Vice-president.  In  his  farewell 
speech  to  the  Senate  he  said  he  did  not  remember 
the  names  of  all  the  people  who  had  slandered 
him  and  intrigued  against  him,  since  "  he  thanked 
God  he  had  no  memory  for  injuries!  " 

-«-  130  -+ 


THE    BUTTERICK    BUILDING 

A  stone's  throw  from  the  site  of  the  once-glorious 
house  of  Richmond  Hill 


THE  STORY  OF  RICHMOND  HILL 

The  year  after  the  duel  he  evolved  his  mon- 
strous and  hare-brained  plan  of  establishing  a 
Southern  Republic  with  New  Orleans  as  Capital 
and  himself  as  President.  Mexico  was  in  it  too. 
In  fact,  President  Jefferson  himself  wrote  of  the 
project:  "He  wanted  to  overthrow  Congress, 
corrupt  the  navy,  take  the  throne  of  Monte- 
zuma  and  seize  New  Orleans.  ...  It  is  the 
most  extraordinary  since  the  days  of  Don 
Quixote!  ..." 

General  Wetmore  loyally  declares  the  scheme 
to  have  been  "  a  justifiable  enterprise  for  the  con- 
quest of  one  of  the  provinces  of  Southern  Amer- 
ica." But  no  one  in  the  whole  world  really  knows 
all  about  it.  The  sum  of  the  matter  is  that  he  was 
tried  for  treason,  and  that,  though  he  was  ac- 
quitted, he  was  henceforward  completely  dead 
politically.  Through  all,  Theo  stood  by  him,  and 
her  husband  too.  They  went  to  prison  with  him, 
and  shared  all  his  humiliation  and  disappoint- 
ment. Affection?  Blind,  confident  adoration? 
Never  was  man  born  who  could  win  it  more  com- 
pletely! 

But  America  as  a  whole  did  not  care  for  him 
any  more.  Dr.  Hosack  loaned  him  money,  and, 
after  his  acquittal,  he  set  sail  for  England,  and 
let  Richmond  Hill  be  sold  to  John  Jacob  Astor 
by  his  creditors.  It  brought  only  $25,000,  which 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

was  a  small  sum  compared  to  what  he  owed,  so 
he  had  another  object  in  staying  on  the  other 
side  of  the  water:  a  quite  lively  chance  of  the 
Debtors'  Prison! 

Apropos  of  this,  there  is  one  rather  human 
little  tale  which  is  comforting  to  read,  dropped 
down,  as  it  is,  in  the  middle  of  so  wildly  brilliant 
a  career,  so  colossally  disastrous  a  destiny. 

While  Burr  was  living  at  Richmond  Hill,  he 
was  often  obliged  to  take  coach  journeys  to  out- 
side points.  One  day  he  was  on  his  way  home 
from  Albany  and  stopped  at  a  roadhouse  at  King- 
ston. While  he  was  eating  and  drinking  and  the 
horses  were  being  changed,  he  saw  a  drawing 
which  interested  him.  He  asked  to  see  more  by 
the  same  artist,  for  he  had  a  keen  appreciation 
of  skill  in  all  lines. 

This  and  the  other  sketches  shown  him  were 
the  work  of  a  young  fellow  called  John  Van- 
derlyn,  who  shortly  was  summoned  to  meet  the 
great  Burr.  The  lad  was  apprenticed  to  a  wagon- 
maker,  and  had  absolutely  no  prospects  nor  any 
hope  of  cultivating  his  undoubted  talent.  Like 
any  other  boy  young  and  poor  and  in  a  position 
so  humble  as  to  offer  no  opportunity  of  improve- 
ment, he  was  even  afraid  of  change,  and  seemed 
unwilling  to  take  the  plunge  of  leaving  his  master 
and  taking  his  chance  in  the  great  world. 

-*-  132-?- 


THE  STORY  OF  RICHMOND  HILL 

"  Very  well,"  said  Burr.  "  When  you  change 
your  mind,  just  put  a  clean  shirt  in  your  pocket, 
come  to  New  York  and  asked  for  Colonel  Burr." 

Then  he  dismissed  the  boy  from  his  presence 
and  the  whole  episode  from  his  mind,  got  into 
his  coach  and  continued  on  his  way. 

Two  months  later  he  was  at  breakfast  in  the 
dining-room  at  Richmond  Hill, — with  Theo 
probably  pouring  out  his  "  dish  of  coffee," — when 
a  vast  disturbance  arose  downstairs.  A  roughly 
dressed  lad  had  presented  himself  at  the  front 
door  and  insisted  on  seeing  Colonel  Burr,  in  spite 
of  all  the  resistance  of  his  manservant.  At  last 
he  succeeded  in  forcing  his  way  past,  and  made 
his  appearance  in  the  breakfast-room,  followed 
by  the  startled  and  indignant  servant.  Burr  did 
not  recognise  him  in  the  least,  but  the  youth 
walked  up  to  him,  pulled  a  shirt — of  country 
make  but  quite  clean — out  of  his  coat  pocket, 
and  held  it  out. 

Immediately  it  all  came  back  to  Burr,  and  he 
was  delighted  by  the  simplicity  with  which  the 
wagon-maker's  apprentice  had  taken  him  at  his 
word.  No  one  could  play  the  benefactor  more 
generously  when  he  chose,  and  he  lost  no  time  in 
sending  Vanderlyn  to  Paris  to  study  art.  So 
brilliantly  did  the  young  man  acquit  himself  in 
the  ateliers  there  that  within  a  very  few  years 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

he  was  the  most  distinguished  of  all  American 
painters  in  Europe.  In  Henry  Brevoort's  Letters 
are  references  to  his  commission  to  paint  General 
Jackson,  among  others. 

And  now  comes  the  pleasant  part  of  this  little 
story  within  a  story: 

In  1808,  Aaron  Burr  was  an  exile  in  London. 
His  trouble  with  Hamilton,  his  mad  scheme  of 
empire  and  trial  for  treason,  his  political  un- 
popularity, had  made  him  an  outcast;  and  at 
that  time,  he,  the  most  fascinating,  and  at  one 
time  the  most  courted  of  men,  lived  and  moved 
without  a  friend.  And  he  met  Vanderlyn, — once 
the  wistful  lad  who  drew  pictures  when  his 
master  wanted  him  to  turn  spokes.  Now  Van- 
derlyn was  a  big  man,  with  a  name  in  the  world 
and  money  in  his  pocket,  and — Aaron  Burr's 
warm  and  grateful  friend.  Burr  was  living  in 
lodgings  at  eight  shillings  a  week  at  that  time, 
and  his  only  caller  was  John  Vanderlyn. 

In  1812  it  seemed  safe,  even  advisable,  for  the 
exile  to  return  to  America  again,  but  where  was 
the  money  to  be  found?  He  was  penniless.  Well, 
the  money  was  found  quite  easily.  Vanderlyn 
made  a  pile  of  all  his  best  canvases,  sold  them, 
and  handed  over  the  proceeds  to  his  friend  and 
erstwhile  benefactor.  And  so  Burr  came  home 
to  America. 

•+-  134-1- 


THE  STORY  OF  RICHMOND  HILL 

X 

I  think  the  nicest  part  of  all  this  is  Vander- 
lyn's  loyal  silence  about  the  older  man's  affairs. 
It  is  likely  that  he  knew  more  about  Burr's 
troubles  and  perplexities  and  mistakes  than  any 
other  man,  but  he  was  fiercely  reticent  on  the 
subject.  Once  a  writer  approached  Vanderlyn 
for  some  special  information.  It  was  after  Burr's 
death,  and  the  scribe  had  visions  of  publishing 
something  illuminating  about  this  most  mysterious 
and  inscrutable  genius. 

"  And  now  about  Burr's  private  life,"  he  in- 
sinuated confidentially. 

The  artist  turned  on  him  savagely. 

"  You  let  Burr's  private  life  alone ! "  he 
snarled. 

The  author  fled,  deciding  that  he  certainly 
would  do  just  that! 

Burr  came  home.  But  fate  was  not  through 
with  him  yet.  Dear  Theo  set  sail  without  delay, 
from  South  Carolina,  to  meet  her  father  in  New 
York.  He  had  been  gone  years,  and  she  was 
hungry  for  the  sight  of  him.  Her  little  son  had 
died,  and  father  and  daughter  longed  to  be  to- 
gether again. 

Her  boat  was  the  Patriot — and  the  Patriot  has 
never  been  heard  from  since  she  put  out.  She  was 
reported  sunk  off  Cape  Hatteras,  but  for  many 
years  a  haunting  report  persisted  that  she  had  been 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

captured  by  the  pirates  that  then  infested  coast- 
wise trade.  So  Theodosia — barely  thirty  years 
old — vanished  from  the  world  so  far  as  we  may 
know.  The  dramatic  and  tragic  mystery  of  her 
death  seems  oddly  in  keeping  with  her  life  and 
that  of  her  father.  Somehow  one  could  scarcely 
imagine  Theo  growing  old  peacefully  on  a  South- 
ern plantation! 

Her  father  never  regained  his  old  eagerness 
for  life  after  her  loss.  He  lived  for  years,  prac- 
tised law  once  more  with  distinction  and  success 
on  Nassau  Street,  even  made  a  second  marriage 
very  late  in  life,  but  I  think  some  vivid,  vital, 
romantic  part  of  him,  something  of  ambition  and 
fire  and  adventure,  was  lost  at  sea  with  his  child 
Theodosia. 

And  now  shall  we  go  back,  for  a  few  moments 
only,  to  Richmond  Hill? 

Counsellor  Benson  (or  Benzon)  is  generally 
supposed  to  have  been  the  last  true-blue  celebrity 
to  inhabit  the  famous  old  house.  He  was  Gov- 
ernor of  the  Danish  Islands,  and  an  eccentric. 
Our  old  friend  Verplanck  says  that  he  himself 
dined  there  once  with  thirteen  others,  all  speaking 
different  languages.  .  .  .  "  None  of  whom  I 
ever  saw  before,"  he  states,  "  but  all  pleasant  fel- 
lows. ...  I,  the  only  American,  the  rest  of 
every  different  nation  in  Europe  and  no  one  the 
H-  136-?- 


THE  STORY  OF  RICHMOND  HILL 

same,  and  all  of  us  talking  bad  French  together!  " 
It  was  soon  after  this  that  the  city  began  cut- 
ting up  old  lots  into  new,  and  turning  what  had 
been  solitary  country  estates  into  gregarious  sub- 
urbs and,  soon,  metropolitan  sections.  Among 
other  strange  performances,  they  levelled  the  hills 
of  New  York — is  it  not  odd  to  remember  that 
there  once  were  hills,  many  hills,  in  New  York? 
And  right  and  left  they  did  their  commissioner- 
like  best  to  cut  the  town  all  to  one  pattern.  Of 
course  they  couldn't,  quite,  but  the  effort  was  of 
lasting  and  painfully  efficacious  effect.  They 
could  not  find  it  in  their  hearts,  I  suppose,  to  raze 
Richmond  Hill  House  completely, — it  was  a 
noble  landmark,  and  a  home  of  memories  which 
ought  to  have  given  even  commissioners  pause, — 
and  maybe  did.  But  they  began  to  lower  it — yes : 
take  it  down  literally.  No  one  with  an  imagina- 
tive soul  can  fail  to  feel  that  as  they  lowered  the 
house  in  site  and  situation  so  they  gradually  but 
relentlessly  permitted  it  to  be  lowered  in  char- 
acter. It  is  with  a  distinct  pang  that  I  recall  the 
steps  of  Richmond  Hill's  decline:  material  and 
spiritual,  its  two-sided  fall  appears  to  have  kept 
step. 

A  sort  of  degeneracy  struck  the  erstwhile  lovely 
and  exclusive  old  neighbourhood.     Such  gay  re- 
sorts   as   Vauxhall    and   Ranelagh    Gardens   had 
-e-i37-e- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

encroached  on  the  aristocratic  regions  of  Lis- 
penard's  Meadows  and  their  vicinity.  Brannan's 
Gardens  were  close  to  the  present  crossing  of 
Hudson  and  Spring  streets.  And — Richmond 
Hill  did  not  escape!  It  too  became  a  tavern,  a 
pleasure  resort,  a  "  mead  garden,"  a  roadhouse — 
whatever  you  choose  to  call  it.  It,  with  its  con- 
temporaries, was  the  goal  of  many  a  gay  party 
and  I  am  told  that  its  "  turtle  dinners  "  were  in- 
comparable! In  winter  there  were  sleighing 
parties,  a  gentleman  and  lady  in  each  sleigh;  and 
— but  here  is  a  better  picture-maker  than  I  to  give 
it  to  you — one  Thomas  Janvier,  in  short: 

"  How  brave  a  sight  it  must  have  been  when — 
the  halt  for  refreshments  being  ended — the  long 
line  of  carriages  got  under  way  again  and  went 
dashing  along  the  causeway  over  Lispenard's 
green  meadows,  while  the  silvered  harness  of  the 
horses  and  the  brilliant  varnish  of  the  Italian 
chaises  gleamed  and  sparkled  in  the  rays  of 
nearly  level  sunshine  from  the  sun  that  was  set- 
ting there  a  hundred  years  and  more  ago! " 

The  secretary  and  engineer  to  the  commis- 
sioners who  cut  up,  levelled  and  made  over  New 
York  was  John  Randel,  Jr.,  and  he  has  left  us 
most  minute  and  prolific  writings,  covering  every- 

-«-  138  -+ 


THE  STORY  OF  RICHMOND  HILL 

thing  he  saw  in  the  course  of  his  work;  indeed 
one  wonders  how  he  ever  had  time  to  work  at  all 
at  his  profession!  Among  his  records  is  this 
account  of  dear  Richmond  Hill  before  it  had 
been  lowered  to  the  level  of  the  valley  lands.  It 
was,  in  fact,  the  last  of  the  hills  to  go. 

After  describing  carefully  the  exact  route  he 
took  daily  to  the  Commissioners'  office  in  Green- 
wich, as  far  as  Varick  Street  where  the  excava- 
tions for  St.  John's  Church  were  then  being  made 
(1808),  and  stating  that  he  crossed  the  ditch  at 
Canal  Street  on  a  plank,  he  goes  on  thus: 

"  From  this  crossing  place  I  followed  a  well- 
beaten  path  leading  from  the  city  to  the  then 
village  of  Greenwich,  passing  over  open  and 
partly  fenced  lots  and  fields,  not  at  that  time  under 
cultivation,  and  remote  from  any  dwelling-house 
now  remembered  by  me  except  Colonel  Aaron 
Burr's  former  country-seat,  on  elevated  ground, 
called  Richmond  Hill,  which  was  about  one 
hundred  or  one  hundred  and  fifty  yards  west 
of  this  path,  and  was  then  occupied  as  a  place 
of  refreshment  for  gentlemen  taking  a  drive  from 
the  city." 

In  1820,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  the  levelling 
(and  lowering)  process  was  complete.  Richmond 

•*-  139  -*-- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

Hill's  sad  old  windows  looked  no  longer  down 
upon  a  beautiful  country  world,  but  out  on  swiftly 
growing  city  blocks.  In  1831,  a  few  art-loving 
souls  tried  to  found  a  high-class  theatre  in  the 
old  house, — the  Richmond  Hill  Theatre.  Among 
them  was  Lorenzo  Daponte,  who  had  been  exiled 
from  Venice,  and  wrote  witty  satirical  verse. 

The  little  group  of  sincere  idealists  wanted  this 
theatre  to  be  a  real  home  of  high  art,  and  a  prize 
was  offered  for  the  best  "  poetical  address  on  the 
occasion," — that  is,  the  opening  of  the  theatre. 
The  judges  and  contestants  sat  in  one  of  the  his- 
toric reception  rooms  that  had  seen  such  august 
guests  as  Washington  and  Burr,  Adams  and  Ham- 
ilton, Talleyrand  and  Louis  Philippe. 

Our  good  friend  General  Wetmore  can  tell  us 
of  this  at  first  hand  for  he  was  one  of  those 
present. 

"  It  was,"  he  says,  "  an  afternoon  to  be  remem- 
bered. As  the  long  twilight  deepened  into  eve- 
ning, the  shadows  of  departed  hosts  and  long- 
forgotten  guests  seemed  to  hover  'round  the 
dilapidated  halls  and  the  dismantled  chambers." 

The  winner  of  the  prize  was  Fitz-Greene  Hal- 
leek;  and  it  was  not  at  all  a  bad  poem,  though 
too  long  to  quote  here. 

The  theatre  was  never  a  brilliant  success.  To 
be  sure,  such  sterling  actors  as  Mr.  and  Mrs. 

-*-  140  -»- 


THE  STORY  OF  RICHMOND  HILL 

John  Barnes  and  the  Hilsons  played  there,  and 
during  a  short  season  of  Italian  opera,  in  which 
Daponte  was  enthusiastically  interested,  Adelaide 
Pedrotti  was  the  prima  donna.  And  one  of  New 
York's  first  "  opera  idols "  sang  there — Luciano 
Fornasari,  generally  acclaimed  by  New  York 
ladies  as  the  handsomest  man  who  had  ever  been 
in  the  city!  For  a  wonder,  he  wasn't  a  tenor, 
only  a  basso,  but  they  adored  him  just  the  same. 

Somehow  it  grows  hard  to  write  of  Richmond 
Hill — a  hill  no  longer,  but  a  shabby  playhouse, 
which  was  not  even  successful.  The  art-loving 
impresarios  spent  the  little  money  they  had  very 
speedily  and  there  was  no  more  Richmond  Hill 
Theatre. 

Then  a  circus  put  up  there — yes,  a  circus — in 
the  same  house  which  had  made  even  sensible 
Mrs.  Adams  dream  dreams,  and  where  Theo 
Burr  had  entertained  her  Indian  Chief!  In  1842, 
it  was  the  headquarters  of  a  menagerie,  pure  and 
simple. 

In  1849 — thank  God — its  nightmare  of  desecra- 
tion was  over.  It  was  pulled  down,  and  they 
built  red-brick  houses  on  its  grave  and  left  its 
ancient  memories  to  sleep  in  peace. 

"  And  thus "  [Wetmore  once  again]  "  passed 
away  the  glories  and  the  shadows  of  Richmond 

^  141  -*• 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

Hill.  All  that  remains  of  them  are  a  few  fleeting 
memories  and  a  page  or  two  of  history  fast  fading 
into  oblivion." 

For  once,  I  cannot  quite  agree  with  him — not 
when  he  says  that.  For  surely  the  home  of  so 
much  romance  and  grandeur  and  charm  and  im- 
portance must  leave  something  behind  it  other 
than  a  few  fleeting  memories  and  a  page  or  two 
of  history.  Houses  have  ghosts  as  well  as  people, 
and  if  ever  there  stood  a  house  with  a  person- 
ality, that  was  sweet,  poignant  and  indestructible, 
it  was  the  House  on  Richmond  Hill. 

I,  who  tell  you  this,  am  very  sure.  Have  I 
not  seen  it  sketched  in  bright,  shadowy  lines  upon 
the  air  above  Charlton  and  Varick  streets, — its 
white  columns  shining  through  all  the  modern 
city  murk?  Go  there  in  the  right  mood  and  at 
the  right  moment,  and  you  will  see,  too. 


142 


"  Tom  Paine,  Infidel. ' 


CHAPTER  V 
"  Tom  Paine,  Infidel" 

.  .  .  These  are  the  times  that  try  men's  souls.  The  sum- 
mer soldier  and  the  sunshine  patriot  will,  in  this  crisis,  shrink 
from  the  service  of  their  country;  but  he  that  stands  it  now, 
deserves  the  love  and  thanks  of  man  and  woman.  ...  I  have 
as  little  superstition  in  me  as  any  man  living;  but  my  secret 
opinion  has  ever  been,  and  still  is,  that  God  Almighty  will  not 
give  up  a  people  to  military  destruction,  or  leave  them  unsup- 
portedly  to  perish,  who  have  so  earnestly  and  so  repeatedly 
sought  to  avoid  the  calamities  of  war,  by  every  decent  method 
which  wisdom  could  invent. — "  The  Crisis." 


WANT  you  to  note  carefully  the  title 
of  this  chapter.  And  then  I  want  you 
to  note  still  more  carefully  the  quota- 
tation  with  which  it  opens.  It  was  the 
man  known  far  and  wide  as  "  the  infidel," — the 
man  who  was  denounced  by  church-goers,  and 
persecuted  for  his  unorthodox  doctrines, — who 
wrote  with  such  high  and  happy  confidence  of  a 
fair,  a  just  and  a  merciful  God  Almighty. 

Before  me  lies  a  letter  from  W.  M.  van  der 
Weyde,    the    president    of    the    Thomas    Paine 
National  Historical  Association.     One  paragraph 
meets  my  eyes  at  this  moment: 
•+-  145-?- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

"  Paine  was,  without  doubt,  the  very  biggest 
figure  that  ever  lived  in  *  Greenwich  Village.'  I 
think,  on  investigation,  you  will  realise  the  truth 
of  this  statement." 

I  have  realised  it.  And  that  is  why  I  conceive 
no  book  on  Greenwich  complete  without  a  chap- 
ter devoted  to  him  who  came  to  be  known  as 
"  the  great  Commoner  of  Mankind."  He  spoke 
of  himself  as  a  "  citizen  of  the  world,"  and  there 
are  many  quarters  of  the  globe  that  can  claim  a 
share  in  his  memory,  so  we  will  claim  it,  too! 

It  is  true  that  Thomas  Paine  lived  but  a  short 
time  in  Greenwich,  and  that  the  long  play  of  his 
full  and  colourful  career  was  enacted  before  he 
came  to  spend  his  last  days  in  the  Village.  But 
he  is  none  the  less  an  essential  part  of  Greenwich; 
his  illustrious  memory  is  so  signal  a  source  of 
pride  to  the  neighbourhood,  his  personality  seems 
still  so  vividly  present,  that  his  life  and  acts  must 
have  a  place  there,  too.  The  street  that  was  named 
"  Reason  "  because  of  him,  suggests  the  persecu- 
tions abroad  and  at  home  which  followed  the 
writing  of  that  extraordinary  and  daring  book 
"  The  Age  of  Reason."  The  name  of  Mme.  de 
Bonneville,  who  chose  for  him  the  little  frame 
house  on  the  site  which  is  now  about  at  59  Grove 
Street,  recalls  his  dramatic  life  chapter  in  Paris, 
-t-  146  -t- 


"TOM  PAINE,  INFIDEL" 

where  he  first  met  the  De  Bonnevilles.  So,  you 
see,  one  cannot  write  of  Thomas  Paine  in  Green- 
wich, without  writing  of  Thomas  Paine  in  the 
great  world — working,  fighting,  pleading,  suffer- 
ing, lighting  a  million  fires  of  courage  and  of  in- 
spiration, living  so  hard  and  fast  and  strenuously, 
that  to  read  over  his  experiences,  his  experiments 
and  his  achievements,  is  like  reading  the  biog- 
raphies of  a  score  of  different  busy  men! 

He  was  born  of  Quaker  parentage,  at  Thet- 
ford,  Norfolk,  in  England,  on  January  29,  1737, 
and  pursued  many  avocations  before  he  found  his 
true  vocation — that  of  a  world  liberator,  and 
apostle  of  freedom  and  human  rights.  One  of  his 
most  sympathetic  commentators,  H.  M.  Brails- 
ford,  says  of  him: 

"His  writing  is  of  the  age  of  enlightenment; 
his  actions  belong  to  romance.  ...  In  his  spirit 
of  adventure,  in  his  passion  for  movement  and 
combat,  there  Paine  is  romantic.  Paine  thought 
in  prose  and  acted  epics.  He  drew  horizons  on 
paper  and  pursued  the  infinite  in  deeds." 

Let  us  see  where  this  impulse  of  romance  and 
adventure  led  him;  it  was  into  strange  enough 
paths  at  first! 

He  was  a  mere  boy — fifteen  or  sixteen,  if  I 
remember  accurately — when  the  lure  of  the  sea 
-«-  147-*- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

seized  him.  It  is  reported  that  he  signed  up  on  a 
privateer  (the  Captain  of  which  was  appropri- 
ately called  Death!),  putting  out  from  England, 
and  sailed  with  her  piratical  crew  for  a  year. 
This  was  doubtless  adventurous  enough,  but 
young  Thomas  already  wanted  adventure  of  a 
different  and  a  higher  order.  He  came  back  and 
went  into  his  Quaker  father's  business — which 
was  that  of  a  staymaker,  of  all  things!  He  got 
his  excitement  by  studying  astronomy! 

Then  he  became  an  exciseman — what  was  some- 
times called  "  gauger  "  —and  was  speedily  cash- 
iered for  negligence.  Anyone  may  have  three 
guesses  as  to  his  reported  next  ambition.  More 
than  one  historian  has  declared  that  he  wished  to 
take  orders  in  the  Church  of  England.  This  is, 
however,  extremely  unlikely.  In  any  case,  he 
changed  his  mind  in  time,  and  was  again  taken  on 
as  exciseman.  Likewise,  he  was  again  dismissed. 
This  time  they  fired  him  for  advocating  higher 
wages  and  writing  a  pamphlet  on  the  subject. 
The  reform  fever  had  caught  him,  you  perceive, 
and  he  was  nevermore  free  from  it,  to  the  day 
of  his  death. 

He  was  a  brilliant  mathematician  and  an  in- 
genious inventor.  Brailsford  says  that  his  inven- 
tions were  "  partly  useful,  partly  whimsical." 
They  would  be,  of  course.  They  included  a 

-*-  148-8- 


59  GROVE  STREET 

On  the  site  of  the  house  where  Thomas  Paine  died 


"TOM  PAINE,  INFIDEL" 

crane,  a  planing-machine,  a  smokeless  candle  and 
a  gunpowder  motor — besides  his  really  big  and 
notable  invention  of  the  first  iron  bridge. 

But  that  came  later.  Before  leaving  England, 
in  addition  to  his  other  and  varied  occupations, 
he  ran  a  "  tobacco  mill,"  and  was  twice  married. 
One  wife  died,  and  from  the  other  he  was 
separated.  At  all  events,  at  thirty-seven,  alone 
and  friendless,  with  empty  pockets  and  a  letter 
from  Benjamin  Franklin  as  his  sole  asset,  he  set 
sail  for  America  in  the  year  1774. 

Of  course  he  went  to  the  Quaker  City,  and 
speedily  became  the  editor  of  the  Pennsylvania 
Magazine,  through  the  pages  of  which  he  cried 
a  new  message  of  liberty  and  justice  to  the 
troubled  Colonies.  He,  an  Englishman,  urged 
America  to  break  away  from  England;  he,  of 
Quaker  birth  and  by  heredity  and  training 
opposed  to  fighting,  advocated  the  most  stringent 
steps  for  the  consummation  of  national  freedom. 
In  that  clear-eyed  and  disinterested  band  of  men 
who  conceived  and  cradled  our  Republic,  Paine 
stands  a  giant  even  among  giants. 

Many  persons  believe  that  it  was  he  who  ac- 
tually composed  and  wrote  the  Declaration  of 
Independence;  it  is  certain  that  he  is  more  than 
half  responsible  for  it.  The  very  soul  and  fibre 
and  living  spirit  of  the  United  States  was  the 
-<-  149  -h 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

soul  and  fibre  and  living  spirit  of  Thomas  Paine, 
and,  in  the  highest  American  standards  and  tra- 
ditions, remains  the  same  today. 

In  1775  he  wrote  "  Common  Sense  " — the  book 
which  was,  as  one  historian  declares,  the  "  clarion 
call  for  separation  from  England,"  and  which 
swept  the  country.  Edmund  Randolph  drily 
ascribes  American  independence  first  to  George 
III  and  second  to  Paine.  Five  hundred  thousand 
copies  of  the  pamphlet  were  sold,  and  he  might 
easily  have  grown  rich  on  the  proceeds,  but  he 
could  never  find  it  in  his  conscience  to  make 
money  out  of  patriotism,  and  he  gave  every  cent 
to  the  war  fund. 

This  splendid  fire-eating  Quaker — is  there  any- 
thing stauncher  than  a  fighting  Quaker? — pro- 
ceeded to  enlist  in  the  Pennsylvania  division  of 
the  Flying  Camp  under  General  Roberdeau ;  then 
he  went  as  aide-de-camp  to  General  Greene.  It 
was  in  1776  that  he  started  his  "Crisis,"  a  series 
of  stirring  and  patriotic  addresses  in  pamphlet 
form.  General  Washington  ordered  the  first  copy 
read  aloud  to  every  regiment  in  the  Continental 
Army,  and  its  effect  is  now  history. 

Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox  has  written  of  this: 

".    .    .   Many  of  the  soldiers  were  shoeless  and 
left  bloody  footprints  on  the  snow-covered  line 
•*-  150-*- 


"TOM  PAINE,  INFIDEL" 

of  march.  All  were  but  half-hearted  at  this  time 
and  many  utterly  discouraged.  Washington  wrote 
most  apprehensively  concerning  the  situation  to 
the  Congress.  Paine,  in  the  meantime  (himself 
a  soldier,  with  General  Greene's  army  on  the 
retreat  from  Fort  Lee,  New  Jersey,  to  Newark), 
realising  the  necessity  of  at  once  instilling  re- 
newed hope  and  courage  in  the  soldiers  if  the 
cause  of  liberty  was  to  be  saved,  wrote  by  camp- 
fire  at  night  the  first  number  of  his  soul-stirring 
'  Crisis.' " 

It  was  before  Trenton  that  those  weary  and  dis- 
heartened soldiers, — ragged,  barefoot,  half  frozen 
and  more  than  half  starved — first  heard  the  words 
that  have  echoed  down  the  years: 

'  These  are  the  times  that  try  men's  souls!" 

They  answered  that  call;  every  man  of  them 
answered  Paine's  heart  cry,  as  they  took  up  their 
muskets  again.  It  was  with  that  immortal  sen- 
tence as  a  war  slogan,  that  the  Battle  of  Trenton 
was  won. 

Is  it  any  wonder  that  in  England  the  "  Crisis " 
was  ordered  to  be  burned  by  the  hangman?     It 
was    a    more   formidable    enemy    than    anything 
ever  devised  in  the  shape  of  steel  or  powder! 
-*-  151  -*- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

A  list  of  Paine's  services  to  this  country  would 
be  too  long  to  set  down  here.  The  Association 
dedicated  to  his  memory  and  honour  cites  twenty- 
four  important  reasons  why  he  stands  among  the 
very  first  and  noblest  figures  in  American  history. 
And  there  are  dozens  more  that  they  don't  cite. 
He  did  things  that  were  against  possibility. 
When  the  patriot  cause  was  weak  for  lack  of 
money  he  gave  a  year's  salary  to  start  a  bank  to 
finance  the  army,  and  coaxed,  commanded  and 
hypnotised  other  people  into  subscribing  enough 
to  carry  it.  He  went  to  Paris  and  induced  the 
French  King  to  give  $6,000,000  to  American  in- 
dependence. He  wrote  "  Rights  of  Man  "  and 
the  "  Age  of  Reason," — and,  incidentally,  was 
outlawed  in  England  and  imprisoned  in  France! 
He  did  more  and  received  less  compensation  for 
what  he  did,  either  in  worldly  goods  or  in  grati- 
tude, than  any  figure  in  relatively  recent 
history. 

America,  though — I  hear  you  say! — America, 
for  whom  he  fought  and  laboured  and  sacrificed 
himself:  she  surely  appreciated  his  efforts? 
Listen.  On  his  return  from  Europe,  America 
disfranchised  him,  ostracised  him  and  repudiated 
him,  refusing,  among  other  indignities,  to  let  him 
ride  in  public  coaches. 

So  be  it.  He  is  not  the  first  great  man  who 
-*-  152  -*- 


"TOM  PAINE,  INFIDEL" 

has  found  the  world  thankless.  Oddly  enough,  it 
troubled  him  little  in  comparison  with  the  satis- 
faction he  felt  in  seeing  his  exalted  projects  meet 
with  success.  So  that  good  things  were  effectually 
accomplished,  he  cared  not  a  whit  who  got  the 
credit. 

In  reference  to  the  charges  against  him  of 
being  "  an  infidel,"  or  guilty  of  "  infidelity,"  he 
himself,  with  that  straightforward  and  happy  con- 
fidence which  made  some  men  call  him  a  brag- 
gart, wrote: 

"  They  have  not  yet  accused  Providence  of  In- 
fidelity. Yet,  according  to  their  outrageous  piety, 
she  (Providence)  must  be  as  bad  as  Thomas 
Paine;  she  has  protected  him  in  all  his  dangers, 
patronised  him  in  all  his  undertakings,  encour- 
aged him  in  all  his  ways.  ..." 

It  is  true,  as  Mr.  van  der  Weyde  points  out  in 
an  article  in  The  Truth  Seeker  (N.  Y.),  that  a 
most  extraordinary  and  beneficent  luck, — or  was 
it  rather  a  guardian  angel? — stood  guard  over 
Paine.  His  narrow  escapes  from  death  would 
make  a  small  book  in  themselves.  I  will  only 
mention  one  here. 

During  his  imprisonment  in  the  Luxembourg 
Prison  in  Paris,  Thomas  Paine  was  one  of  the 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

many  who  were  sentenced  to  be  guillotined  at 
that  period  when  the  moral  temperature  of  France 
was  many  degrees  above  the  normal  mark,  and 
men  doled  out  death  more  freely  than  sous.  It 
was  the  custom  among  the  jailers  to  make  a  chalk 
mark  upon  the  door  of  each  cell  that  held  a  man 
condemned.  Paine  was  one  of  a  "  consignment " 
of  one  hundred  and  sixty-eight  prisoners  sen- 
tenced to  be  beheaded  at  dawn,  and  the  jailer 
made  the  fateful  chalk  mark  upon  his  door  along 
with  the  others,  that  the  guards  would  know  he 
was  destined  for  the  tumbrel  that  rolled  away  from 
the  prison  hour  by  hour  all  through  the  night. 
But  his  door  chanced  to  be  open,  so  that  the  mark, 
hastily  made,  turned  out  to  be  on  the  wrong 
side!  When  the  door  was  closed  it  was  inside, 
and  no  one  knew  of  it;  so  the  guard  passed  on, 
and  Paine  lived. 

It  is  interesting  but  difficult  to  write  about 
Thomas  Paine. 

The  trouble  about  him  is  that  his  personality 
is  too  overwhelming  to  be  cut  and  measured  in 
proper  lengths  by  any  writer.  He  does  not  lend 
himself,  like  lesser  historical  figures,  to  con- 
tinuous or  disinterested  narrative.  The  authors 
who  have  been  rash  enough  to  try  to  tell  some- 
thing about  him  can  no  more  pick  and  choose  the 
incidents  of  his  career  that  will  make  the  most 


"TOM  PAINE,  INFIDEL" 

effective  "  stuff "  than  they  could  reduce  the 
phenomena  of  a  cyclone  or  the  aurora  borealis  to 
a  consistent  narrative  form. 

Thus:  One  starts  to  speak  of  Paine's  experi- 
ences in  Paris,  and  brings  up  in  New  Rochelle; 
one  endeavours  to  anchor  him  in  Greenwich,  only 
to  find  oneself  trailing  his  weary  but  stubborn 
footsteps  in  the  war!  And  always  and  forever, 
Paine  himself  persists  in  crowding  out  the  legiti- 
mate sequence  of  his  adventures.  No  one  can 
soberly  write  the  story  of  his  life;  one  can,  at 
best,  only  achieve  a  diatribe  or  an  apotheosis! 

Said  he: 

"  The  sun  needs  no  inscription  to  distinguish 
him  from  darkness." 

This  quotation  might  almost  serve  as  a  text 
for  the  life  of  Paine,  might  it  not?  And  yet — 
there  are  people  in  the  world  who  wear  smoked 
glasses,  through  which,  I  imagine,  the  sun  him- 
self looks  not  unlike  a  muddy  splash  of  yellow 
paint  upon  the  heavens! 

This  is  a  book  about  Greenwich  Village  and 
not  a  defence  of  Thomas  Paine.  Yet,  since  the 
reader  has  come  with  me  thus  far,  I  am  going 
to  take  advantage  of  his  courteous  attention  for 
just  another  moment  of  digression.  Here  is  my 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

promise:  that  it  shall  take  up  a  small,  small 
space. 

Small  insects  sting  dangerously;  and  on  occa- 
sion, a  very  trivial  and  ill-considered  word  or 
phrase  will  cling  closer  and  longer  than  a  serious 
or  thoughtful  judgment.  When  Theodore  Roose- 
velt called  Thomas  Paine  "  a  filthy  little  Atheist " 
(or  was  the  adjective  "dirty"?  I  really  forget!) 
he  was  very  young, — only  twenty-eight, — and 
doubtless  had  accepted  his  viewpoint  of  the  great 
reformer-patriot  from  that  "  hearsay  upon  hear- 
say "  against  which  Paine  himself  has  so  urgently 
warned  us.  Of  course  Mr.  Roosevelt,  who  is  both 
intellectual  and  broad-minded,  knows  better  than 
that  today.  But  it  is  astonishing  how  that  ridi- 
culous and  unsuitable  epithet — (a  "trinity  of 
lies"  as  one  historian  has  styled  it) — has  stuck 
to  a  memory  which  I  am  sure  is  sacred  to  any 
angels  who  may  be  in  heaven! 

"  Atheist "  is  a  word  which  could  be  applied 
to  few  men  less  suitably  than  to  Paine.  From 
first  to  last,  he  preached  the  goodness  of  God, 
the  power  of  God,  the  justice  and  mercy  and  in- 
fallibility of  God;  and  he  lived  in  a  profound 
trust  in  and  love  for  God,  and  a  hopeful  and  cou- 
rageous effort  to  carry  out  such  principles  of 
moral  and  national  right-doing  as  he  believed 
to  be  the  will  of  his  beloved  Creator. 


"  TOM  PAINE,  INFIDEL  " 

"  If  this,"  as  one  indignant  enthusiast  ex- 
claimed, "  is  to  be  an  Atheist,  then  Jesus  Christ 
must  have  been  an  Atheist!  " 

As  incongruous  as  anything  else,  in  the  judg- 
ment of  Paine,  is  the  fact  that  he  has,  apparently, 
been  adopted  by  the  pacifists.  The  pacifists  and 
— Paine! — Paine  who  never  in  all  his  seventy 
years  was  out  of  a  scrap!  They  could  scarcely 
have  chosen  a  less  singularly  unfit  guiding  star, 
for  Paine  was  a  confirmed  fighter  for  anything 
and  everything  he  held  right.  And  his  militancy 
was  not  merely  of  action  but  of  the  soul,  not 
only  of  policy  or  necessity  but  of  spiritual  con- 
viction. When  even  Washington  was  inclined 
to  submit  patiently  a  bit  longer,  it  was  Paine  who 
lashed  America  into  righteous  war.  He  fought 
for  the  freedom  of  the  country,  for  the  abolition 
of  slavery,  for  the  rights  of  women ;  he  fought  for 
old-age  pensions,  for  free  public  schools,  for  the 
protection  of  dumb  animals,  for  international 
copyright;  for  a  hundred  and  one  ideals  of  equity 
and  humanity  which  today  are  legislature.  And 
he  fought  with  his  body  and  his  brain;  with  his 
"  flaming  eloquence  "  and  also  with  a  gun!  Once 
let  him  perceive  the  cause  to  be  a  just  one,  and — 
I  know  of  no  more  magnificently  belligerent  a 
figure  in  all  history. 

And  yet  note  here  the  splendid,  the  illuminating 
-«-  157-?- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

paradox:  Paine  abhorred  war.  Every  truly  great 
fighter  has  abhorred  war,  else  he  were  not  truly 
great.  In  1778,  in  the  very  thick  of  the  Revo- 
lution, he  wrote  solemnly: 

"  If  there  is  a  sin  superior  to  every  other,  it  is 
that  of  wilful  and  offensive  war.  .  .  .  He  who 
is  the  author  of  a  war  lets  loose  the  whole  con- 
tagion of  hell,  and  opens  a  vein  that  bleeds  a 
nation  to  death."  (A  copy  of  this,  together  with 
the  President's  recent  message,  might  advan- 
tageously be  sent  to  a  certain  well-known  address 
on  the  other  side  of  the  world!)  Yet  did  Paine, 
with  this  solemn  horror  of  war,  suggest  that  the 
United  States  stop  fighting?  No  more  than  he 
had  suggested  that  they  keep  out  of  trouble  in 
the  first  place.  Paine  hated  war  in  itself;  but 
he  held  war  a  proper  and  righteous  means  to 
noble  ends. 

Consistency  is  not  only  the  bugbear  of  little 
minds;  it  is  also  the  trade-mark  of  them.  Paine 
also  detested  monarchies.  "  Some  talent  is  ire- 
quired  to  be  a  simple  workman,"  he  wrote;  "to 
be  a  king  there  is  need  to  have  only  the  human 
shape."  Of  Burke,  he  said:  "Mr.  Burke's  mind 
is  above  the  homely  sorrows  of  the  vulgar.  He 
can  feel  only  for  a  king  or  a  queen.  .  .  .  He 
pities  the  plumage,  but  forgets  the  dying  bird." 

Yet  when  he  was  a  member  of  that  French 
-j-  158  -»- 


"TOM  PAINE,  INFIDEL" 

Assembly  that  voted  King  Louis  to  death,  he 
fought  the  others  fiercely, — even  though  unable  to 
speak  French, — persistently  opposing  them,  with 
a  passionate  determination  and  courage  which 
came  near  to  costing  him  his  life.  For,  as  Brails- 
ford  says,  "  The  Terror  made  mercy  a  traitor." 

Are  these  things  truly  paradoxes,  or  are  they 
rather  manifestations  of  that  God-given  reason 
which  can  clearly  see  things  as  they  are  as  well 
as  things  as  they  should  be,  and  see  both  to  good 
and  helpful  purpose? 

In  1802  Paine  returned  to  America,  just  sixty- 
five  years  old.  He  had  suffered  terribly,  had 
rendered  great  services  and  it  was  at  least  reason- 
able that  he  should  expect  a  welcome.  What 
happened  is  tersely  told  by  Rufus  Rockwell 
Wilson : 

"  When,  at  the  age  of  sixty-five,  he  came  again 
to  the  nation  he  had  helped  to  create,  he  was 
met  by  the  new  faces  of  a  generation  that  knew 
him  not,  and  by  the  cold  shoulders,  instead  of 
the  outstretched  hands,  of  old  friends.  This  was 
the  bitter  fruit  of  his  *  Age  of  Reason,'  which  re- 
mains of  all  epoch-making  books  the  one  most 
persistently  misquoted  and  misunderstood;  for 
even  now  there  are  those  who  rate  it  as  scoffing 
and  scurrilous,  whereas  its  tone  throughout  is 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

noble  and  reverent,  and  some  of  the  doctrines 
which  it  teaches  are  now  recognised  as  not  inimi- 
cal to  religion." 

Brailsford,  of  a  more  picturesque  turn  of 
phrase,  says  that  "  slave-owners,  ex-royalists,  and 
the  fanatics  of  orthodoxy  "  were  against  him,  and 
adds: 

"...  The  grandsons  of  the  Puritan  Colo- 
nists who  had  flogged  Quaker  women  as  witches 
denied  him  a  place  on  the  stage-coach,  lest  an 
offended  God  should  strike  it  with  lightning." 

The  state  of  New  York,  in  a  really  surprising 
burst  of  generosity,  presented  him  a  farm  in  New 
Rochelle,  and  then,  lest  he  imagine  the  Govern- 
ment too  grateful,  took  away  his  right  to  vote 
there.  They  offered  the  flimsy  excuse  that  he  was 
a  French  citizen, — which,  of  course,  he  wasn't, — 
but  it  was  all  part  of  the  persecution  inspired  by 
organised  bigotry  and  the  resentful  conservative 
interests  which  he  had  so  long  and  so  unflaggingly 
attacked. 

And  so  at  last  to  Greenwich  Village!  Though 
I  cannot  engage  that  we  shall  not  step  out  of  it 
before  we  are  through. 

Thomas   Paine  was   old   and  weary  with  his 


"TOM  PAINE,  INFIDEL" 

arduous  and  honourable  years  when  he  came  to 
live  in  the  little  frame  house  on  Herring  Street, 
kept  by  one  Mrs.  Ryder. 

John  Randel,  Jr.,  engineer  to  the  Commis- 
sioners who  were  at  work  re-cutting  New  York, 
has  given  us  this  picture  of  Paine: 

"  I  boarded  in  the  city,  and  in  going  to  the 
office  almost  daily  passed  the  house  in  Herring 
Street "  [now  No.  309  Bleecker  Street]  "  where 
Thomas  Paine  resided,  and  frequently  in  fair 
weather  saw  him  sitting  at  the  south  window  of 
the  first-story  room  of  that  house.  The  sash  was 
raised,  and  a  small  table  or  stand  was  placed 
before  him  with  an  open  book  upon  it  which  he 
appeared  to  be  reading.  He  had  his  spectacles 
on,  his  left  elbow  rested  upon  the  table  or  stand, 
and  his  chin  rested  between  thumb  and  fingers  of 
his  hand;  his  right  hand  lay  upon  his  book,  and 
a  decanter  next  his  book  or  beyond  it.  I  never 
saw  Thomas  Paine  at  any  other  place  or  in  any 
other  position." 

In  this  house  Paine  was  at  one  time  desperately 
ill.  It  was  said  that  the  collapse  was  partly  due 
to  his  too  sudden  abstinence  from  stimulants.  He 
was  an  old  man  then,  and  had  lived  with  every 
ounce  of  energy  that  was  in  him.  The  stimulants 
-*-  161  -*- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

were  resumed,  and  he  grew  somewhat  better. 
This  naturally  brings  us  to  the  question  of  Paine 
as  an  excessive  drinker.  Of  course  people  said 
he  was;  but  then  people  said  he  was  a  great 
many  things  that  he  was  not.  When  his  enemies 
grew  tired  of  the  monotony  of  crying  "  Tom 
Paine,  the  infidel,"  they  cried  "  Tom  Paine,  the 
drunkard  "  instead. 

Which  recalls  a  story  which  is  an  old  one  but 
too  applicable  not  to  be  quoted  here. 

It  is  said  that  some  official — and  officious — mis- 
chief-maker once  came  to  Lincoln  with  the  report 
that  one  of  the  greatest  and  most  distinguished  of 
Federal  generals  was  in  the  habit  of  drinking 
too  much. 

"Indeed?"  said  Lincoln  drily.  "If  that  is 
true,  I  should  like  to  send  a  barrel  of  the  same 
spirits  to  some  of  my  other  generals." 

If  Thomas  Paine  did  drink  to  excess — which 
seems  extremely  doubtful — it's  a  frightful  and 
solemn  argument  against  Prohibition! 

Mrs.  Ryder's  house  where  Paine  lived  was 
close  to  that  occupied  by  his  faithful  friend  Mme. 
de  Bonneville  and  her  two  sons.  Paine  was  de- 
voted to  the  boys,  indeed  the  younger  was  named 
for  him,  and  their  visits  were  among  his  great- 
est pleasures.  And,  by  the  bye,  while  we  are  on 
the  subject,  the  most  scurrilous  and  unjust  report 

-*-  162  -*- 


"TOM  PAINE,  INFIDEL" 

ever  circulated  against  this  great  man  was  that 
which  cast  a  reflection  upon  the  honourable  and 
kindly  relations  existing  between  him  and  Mme. 
de  Bonneville. 

In  the  first  place,  Paine  had  never  been  a  man 
of  light  or  loose  morals,  and  it  is  scarcely  likely 
that  he  should  have  changed  his  entire  char- 
acter at  the  age  of  three  score  and  ten.  Mme.  de 
Bonneville's  husband,  Nicholas,  was  a  close  friend 
of  Paine  in  Paris,  and  had  originally  intended  to 
come  to  America  with  Paine  and  his  family.  But, 
as  the  publisher  of  a  highly  Radical  paper — the 
Bten  Informe — De  Bonneville  was  under  espio- 
nage, and  when  the  time  came  he  was  not  per- 
mitted to  leave  France.  He  confided  his  wife 
and  children  to  his  friend,  and  they  set  sail  with 
his  promise  to  follow  later.  He  did  follow, 
when  he  could — Washington  Irving  tells  of  chat- 
ting with  him  in  Battery  Park — but  it  was  too 
late  for  him  to  see  the  man  who  had  proved  him- 
self so  true  a  friend  to  him  and  his. 

The  older  De  Bonneville  boy  was  Benjamin, 
known  affectionately  by  his  parents  and  Paine  as 
:t  Bebia."  He  was  destined  to  become  distin- 
guished in  the  Civil  War — Gen.  Benjamin  de 
Bonneville,  of  high  military  and  patriotic  honours. 

I  said  we  couldn't  keep  to  Greenwich — we  have 
travelled  to  France  and  back  again  already! 
-*-  163-*- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

You  may  find  the  house  if  you  care  to  look 
for  it — the  very  same  house  kept  by  Mrs.  Ryder, 
where  Thomas  Paine  lived  more  than  a  century 
ago.  So  humble  and  shabby  it  is  you  might  pass 
it  by  with  no  more  notice  than  you  would  pass  a 
humble  and  shabby  wayfarer.  Its  age  and  pic- 
turesqueness  do  not  arrest  the  eye;  for  it  isn't 
the  sort  of  old  house  which  by  quaint  lines  and 
old-world  atmosphere  tempt  the  average  artist 
or  lure  the  casual  poet  to  its  praise.  It  is  just 
a  little  old  wooden  building  of  another  day, 
where  people  of  modest  means  were  wont  to 
live. 

The  caretaker  there  probably  does  not  know 
anything  about  the  august  memory  that  with  him 
inhabits  the  dilapidated  rooms.  He  doubtless 
fails  to  appreciate  the  honour  of  placing  his  hand 
upon  the  selfsame  polished  mahogany  stair  rail 
which  our  immortal  "  infidel's "  hand  once 
pressed,  or  the  rare  distinction  of  reading  his 
evening  paper  at  the  selfsame  window  where,  with 
his  head  upon  his  hand,  that  Other  was  wont  to 
read  too,  once  upon  a  time. 

Ugly,  dingy  rooms  they  are  in  that  house,  but 
glorified  by  association.  There  is,  incidentally, 
a  mantelpiece  which  anyone  might  envy,  though 
now  buried  in  barbarian  paint.  There  are  gable 
windows  peering  out  from  the  shingled  roof. 

-*-  164  -*- 


GROVE   COURT 


"TOM  PAINE,  INFIDEL" 

Some  day  the  Thomas  Paine  Association  will 
probably  buy  it,  undertake  the  long-forgotten 
national  obligation,  and  prevent  it  from  crumbling 
to  dust  as  long  as  ever  they  can. 

The  caretaker  keeps  pets — cats  and  kittens  and 
dogs  and  puppies.  Once  he  kept  pigeons  too,  but 
the  authorities  disapproved,  he  told  me. 

"  Ah,  well,"  I  said,  "  the  authorities  never  have 
approved  of  things  in  this  house." 

He  thought  me  quite  mad. 

Let  us  walk  down  the  street  toward  that  deli- 
cious splash  of  green — like  a  verdant  spray  thrown 
up  from  some  unseen  river  of  trees.  There  is,  in 
reality,  no  river  of  trees;  it  is  only  Christopher 
Street  Triangle,  elbowing  Sheridan  Square.  Sub- 
way construction  is  going  on  around  us,  but  there 
clings  still  an  old-world  feeling.  Ah,  here  we 
are — 59  Grove  Street.  It  is  a  modest  but  a  charm- 
ing little  red-brick  house  with  a  brass  knocker 
and  an  air  of  unpretentious,  small-scale  pros- 
perity. It  has  only  been  built  during  the  last 
half-century,  but  it  stands  on  the  identical  plot 
of  ground  where  Paine's  other  Greenwich  resi- 
dence once  stood.  It  wasn't  Grove  Street  then; 
in  fact,  it  wasn't  a  street  at  all,  but  an  open  lot 
with  one  lone  frame  house  in  the  middle  of  it. 
Here  Mme.  de  Bonneville  brought  Thomas  Paine 
when  his  age  and  ill  health  necessitated  greater 

•4-  165  -*- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

comforts  than  Mrs.  Ryder's  lodgings  could  af- 
ford. 

Here  he  spent  some  peaceful  months  with  only 
a  few  visitors ;  but  those  were  faithful  ones.  One 
was  Willett  Hicks,  the  Quaker  preacher,  always 
a  staunch  friend;  another  was  John  Wesley  Jarvis, 
the  American  painter — the  same  artist  who  later 
made  the  great  man's  death  mask. 

It  was  Jarvis  who  said:  "  He  devoted  his  whole 
life  to  the  attainment  of  two  objects — rights  of 
man  and  freedom  of  conscience." 

And,  by  the  bye,  Dr.  Conway  has  declared  that 
"  his  c  Rights  of  Man '  is  now  the  political  con- 
stitution of  England,  his  '  Age  of  Reason '  is  the 
growing  constitution  of  its  Church." 

In  passing  I  must  once  again  quote  Mr.  van 
der  Weyde,  who  once  said  to  me :  "  I  often  wonder 
just  what  share  Mary  Wollstonecraft  had  with 
her  t  Rights  of  Women ' — in  the  inspiration  of 
Paine's  '  Rights  of  Man.'  He  and  she,  you  know, 
were  close  friends." 

Another  friend  was  Robert  Fulton  of  steamboat 
fame.  I  have  truly  heard  Paine  enthusiasts  de- 
clare that  our  "  infidel "  was  the  authentic  in- 
ventor of  the  steamboat  I  In  any  case,  he  is  known 
to  have  "  palled  "  with  Fulton,  and  certainly  gave 
him  many  ideas. 

There  were,  to  be  sure,  annoyances.  He  was, 
•*-  i66-e- 


"TOM  PAINE,  INFIDEL" 

in  spite  of  Mme.  de  Bonneville's  affectionate  pro- 
tection, still  an  object  of  persecution. 

Two  clergymen  were  especially  tireless  in  their 
desire  to  reform  this  sterling  reformer.  I  believe 
their  names  were  Milledollar  and  Cunningham. 
Janvier  tells  this  anecdote: 

"  It  was  during  Paine's  last  days  in  the  little 
house  in  Greenwich  that  two  worthy  divines,  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Milledollar  and  the  Rev.  Mr.  Cun- 
ningham, sought  to  bring  him  to  a  realising  sense 
of  the  error  of  his  ways.  Their  visitation  was 
not  a  success.  '  Don't  let  'em  come  here  again,' 
he  said,  curtly,  to  his  housekeeper,  Mrs.  Hedden, 
when  they  had  departed;  and  added:  'They 
trouble  me.'  In  pursuance  of  this  order,  when 
they  returned  to  the  attack,  Mrs.  Hedden  denied 
them  admission — saying  with  a  good  deal  of  piety, 
and  with  even  more  common-sense:  *  If  God  does 
not  change  his  mind,  I'm  sure  no  man  can! ' 

Apropos  of  the  two  houses  occupied  by  Paine 
in  our  city  Mr.  van  der  Weyde  has  pointed  out 
most  interestingly  the  striking  and  almost  mirac- 
ulous way  in  which  they  have  just  escaped  de- 
struction. Paine's  "  Providence  "  has  seemed  to 
stand  guard  over  the  places  sacred  to  him,  just 
as  it  stood  guard  over  his  invaluable  life.  A 
-*-  167  -»- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

dozen  times  309  Bleecker  Street  and  59  Grove 
Street  have  almost  gone  in  the  relentless  con- 
structive demolition  of  metropolitan  growth  and 
progress.  But — they  have  not  gone  yet! 

I  have  said  that  the  Grove  Street  house  stood 
in  an  open  lot,  the  centre  of  a  block  at  that  time. 
Just  after  Paine's  death  a  street  was  cut  through, 
called  Cozine  Street.  Names  were  fleeting  affairs 
in  early  and  fast-growing  New  York,  and  the  one 
street  from  Cozine  became  Columbia,  then  Bur- 
rows, and  last  of  all  Grove,  which  it  remains 
today. 

Here  let  us  make  a  note  of  one  more  indig- 
nity which  the  officially  wise  and  virtuous  ones 
were  able  to  bestow  upon  their  unassumingly  wise 
and  virtuous  victim. 

The  Commissioners  replanning  New  York 
desired  to  pay  Paine's  memory  a  compliment  and 
on  opening  up  the  street  parallel  with  Grove, 
they  called  it  Reason  Street,  for  the  "  Age  of 
Reason."  This  was  objected  to  by  many  bigots 
(who  had  never  read  the  book)  and  some  tactful 
diplomat  suggested  giving  it  the  French  twist— 
Raison  Street.  Already  they  had  the  notion  that 
French  could  cover  a  multitude  of  sins.  Even 
this  was  too  closely  suggestive  of  Tom  Paine,  "  the 
infidel,"  so  it  was  shamelessly  corrupted  to  Raisin! 
Consider  the  street  named  originally  in  honour 

-e-  168-?- 


"TOM  PAINE,  INFIDEL" 

of  the  author  of  the  "  Age  of  Reason,"  eventually 
called  for  a  dried  grape! 

This  too  passed,  and  if  you  go  down  there  now 
you  will  find  it  called  Barrow  Street. 

On  the  8th  of  June,  1809,  Thomas  Paine  died. 

The  New  York  Advertiser  said :  "  With  heart- 
felt sorrow  and  poignant  regret,  we  are  com- 
pelled to  announce  to  the  world  that  Thomas 
Paine  is  no  more.  This  distinguished  philan- 
thropist, whose  life  was  devoted  to  the  cause  of 
humanity,  departed  this  life  yesterday  morning; 
and,  if  any  man's  memory  deserves  a  place  in  the 
breast  of  a  freeman,  it  is  that  of  the  deceased,  for, 

'  Take  him  for  all  in  all, 
We  ne'er  shall  look  upon  his  like  again'' 

The  funeral  party  consisted  of  Hicks,  Mme. 
de  Bonneville  and  two  negroes,  who  loyally 
walked  twenty-two  miles  to  New  Rochelle  to  see 
the  last  of  the  man  who  had  always  defended  and 
pleaded  for  the  rights  of  their  pitifully  misunder- 
stood and  ill-treated  race. 

To  the  end  he  was  active  for  public  service. 
His  actual  last  act  was  to  pen  a  letter  to  the 
Federal  faction,  conveying  a  warning  as  to  the 
then  unsettled  situation  in  American  and  French 
commerce.  Just  before  he  had  made  his  will. 
-*-  169  -*- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

It  is  in  itself  a  composition  worth  copying  and 
preserving.  Paine  could  not  even  execute  a  legal 
document  without  putting  into  it  something  of  the 
beauty  of  spirit  and  distinction  of  phrase  for 
which  he  was  remarkable.  He  had  not  much  to 
leave,  since  he  had  given  all  to  his  country  and 
his  country  had  forgotten  him  in  making  up  the 
balance;  but  what  he  had  went  to  Mme.  de 
Bonneville,  for  her  children,  that  she, — let  me 
quote  his  own  words,  ".  .  .  might  bring  them 
well  up,  give  them  good  and  useful  learning  and 
instruct  them  in  their  duty  to  God  and  the  prac- 
tice of  morality." 

It  continues  thus : 

"  I  herewith  take  my  final  leave  of  them  and 
the  world.  I  have  lived  an  honest  and  useful 
life  to  mankind;  my  time  has  been  spent  in  doing 
good  and  I  die  in  perfect  composure  and  resig- 
nation to  the  will  of  my  Creator  God." 

Such  was  the  last  will  and  testament  of  "  Tom 
Paine,  Infidel." 


170 


Pages  of  Romance 


CHAPTER  VI 

Pages  of  Romance 

In  the  resolute  spirit  of  another  Andor  Andorra,  the  Village 
of  Greenwich  maintains  its  independence  in  the  very  midst  of 
the  city  of  New  York — submitting  to  no  more  of  a  compromise 
in  the  matter  of  its  autonomy  than  is  evolved  in  the  Procrus- 
tean sort  of  splicing  which  has  hitched  fast  the  extremities  of 
its  tangled  streets  to  the  most  readily  available  streets  in  the 
City  Plan.  The  flippant  carelessness  with  which  this  apparent 
union  has  been  effected  only  serves  to  emphasise  the  actual  sepa- 
ration. In  almost  every  case  these  ill-advised  couplings  are 
productive  of  anomalous  disorder,  which  in  the  case  of  the 
numbered  streets  they  openly  travesty  the  requirements  of 
communal  propriety  and  of  common-sense:  as  may  be  inferred 
from  the  fact  that  within  this  disjointed  region  Fourth  Street 
crosses  Tenth,  Eleventh  and  Twelfth  streets  very  nearly  at 
right  angles — to  the  permanent  bewilderment  of  nations  and  to 
the  perennial  confusion  of  mankind. — THOMAS  JANVIER. 

JT  seems  a  far  cry  from  the  Greenwich 
of   the  last  century  to   the   Greenwich 
of    this;    from    such    quaint,    garden- 
enclosed  houses  as   the  Warren  home- 
stead and  Richmond  Hill,  from  the  alternately 
adventurous  and  tranquil  lives  of  the  great  men 
who  used  to  walk  its  crooked   streets   long  and 
long  ago,  to  the  Studio  quarter  of  today.     What 
-f-  173  -+• 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

tie  between  the  Grapevine,  Vauxhall,  Ranelagh, 
Brannan's,  and  all  the  ancient  hostelries  and  mead 
houses  and  the  modern  French  and  Italian  res- 
taurants and  little  tea  shops  which  are  part  and 
parcel  of  the  present  Village?  So  big  did  the 
gap  appear  to  your  servant,  the  author,  so  in- 
congruous the  notion  of  uniting  the  old  and  the 
new  Greenwich  harmoniously  that  she  was  close 
to  giving  the  problem  up  in  despair  and  writing 
her  story  of  Greenwich  Village  in  two  books  in- 
stead of  one.  But — whether  accidentally  or  by 
inspiration,  who  knows? — three  sovereign  bonds 
became  accidentally  plain  to  her.  May  they  be 
as  plain  to  you  who  read — bonds  between  the 
Green  Village  of  an  older  day  and  the  Bohemian 
Village  of  this  our  own  day,  points  that  the  old 
and  the  new  settlements  have  in  common — more 
— points  that  show  the  soul  and  spirit  of  the 
Village  to  be  one  and  the  same,  unchanged  in 
the  past,  unchanged  in  the  present,  probably  to 
be  unchanged  for  all  time.  The  first  of  these 
points  I  have  already  touched  upon  in  an  earlier 
chapter — the  deathless  element  of  romance  that 
has  always  had  its  headquarters  here.  Every  city, 
like  every  brain,  should  have  a  corner  given  over 
to  dreams.  Greenwich  is  the  dream-corner  of 
New  York.  Everyone  feels  it.  I  found  an  old 
article  in  the  Tribune  written  by  Vincent  Pepe 


PAGES  OF  ROMANCE 

which  shows  how  the  romance  of  the  neighbour- 
hood has  crept  into  bricks  and  stone  and  even 
the  uncompromising  prose  of  real  estate. 

"  Each  one  of  these  houses  in  the  Village  is 
from  seventy-five  to  one  hundred  years  old," 
writes  Mr.  Pepe  (he  might  have  said  a  hundred 
and  fifty  with  equal  accuracy  in  a  few  cases), 
"  and  each  one  of  them  has  a  history  of  its  own, 
individually,  as  being  one  of  the  houses  occupied 
by  someone  who  has  made  American  history  and 
some  of  these  houses  have  produced  some  of  our 
present  great  men. 

"  New  York  has  nothing  of  the  old,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  those  old  Colonial  houses  and  for  this 
reason  we  are  trying  to  preserve  them.  .  .  . 
This  is  the  great  advantage  and  distinction  of 
Washington  Square  and  Greenwich  Village  and 
this  is  what  has  made  it  popular  and  it  will  be 
greater  as  the  years  go  by.  It  will  improve 
more  and  more  with  age,  like  an  old  wine. 

"  There  is  only  one  old  section  of  New  York 
and  that  is  Greenwich  Village  and  Washington 
Square,  and  the  public  are  also  going  to  preserve 
this  little  part  of  old  New  York." 

Then  there  is  that  curious  quality  about  Green- 
wich  so   endearing   to   those   who   know   it,   the 
-j-  175-?- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

quality  of  a  haven,  a  refuge,  a  place  of  protected 
freedom. 

"  It's  a  good  thing,"  said  a  certain  brilliant 
young  writer-man  to  me,  "  that  there's  one  place 
where  you  can  be  yourself,  live  as  you  will  and 
work  out  your  scheme  of  life  without  a  lot  of 
criticism  and  convention  to  keep  tripping  you  up. 
The  point  of  view  of  the  average  mortal — out  in 
the  city — is  that  if  you  don't  do  exactly  as  every- 
one else  does  there's  something  the  matter  with 
you,  morally  or  mentally.  In  the  Village  they 
leave  you  in  peace,  and  take  it  for  granted  that 
you're  decent  until  you've  blatantly  proven  your- 
self the  opposite.  I'd  have  lost  my  nerve  or  my 
wits  or  my  balance  or  something  if  I  hadn't  had 
the  Village  to  come  and  breathe  in!" 

Not  so  different  from  the  reputation  of  Old 
Greenwich,  is  it? — a  place  where  the  rich  would 
be  healed,  the  weary  rest  and  the  sorrowful  gain 
comfort.  Not  so  different  from  the  lure  that 
drew  Sir  Peter  out  to  the  Green  Village  between 
his  spectacular  and  hazardous  voyages;  that  gave 
Thomas  Paine  his  "  seven  serene  months "  before 
death  came  to  him;  that  rilled  the  grassy  lanes 
with  a  mushroom  business-life  which  had  fled 
before  the  scourge  of  yellow  fever;  not  so  differ- 
ent from  the  refreshing  ease  of  heart  that  came  to 
Abigail  Adams  and  Theodosia  Alston  when  they 

-j-  176  -*• 


came  there  from  less  comforting  atmospheres. 
Greenwich,  you  see,  maintains  its  old  and  honour- 
able repute — that  of  being  a  resort  and  shelter 
and  refuge  for  those  upon  whom  the  world  out- 
side would  have  pressed  too  heavily. 

There  is  no  one  who  has  caught  the  inconse- 
quent, yet  perfectly  sincere  spirit  of  the  Village 
better  than  John  Reed.  In  reckless,  scholarly 
rhyme  he  has  imprisoned  something  of  the  reck- 
less idealism  of  the  Artists'  Quarter — that  haven 
for  unconventional  souls. 

"  Yet  we  are  free  who  live  in  Washington  Square, 
We  dare  to  think  as  uptown  wouldn't  dare, 
Blazing  our  nights  with  arguments  uproarious; 
What  care  we  for  a  dull  old  world  censorious, 
When  each  is  sure  he'll  fashion  something 
glorious?  n 

So  we  find  that  the  romance  of  Colonial  days 
still  blooms  freshly  below  Fourteenth  Street  and 
that  people  still  rush  to  the  Village  to  escape  the 
world  and  its  ways  as  eagerly  as  they  fled  a  hun- 
dred years  ago.  But  the  third  and  last  point  of 
unity  is  perhaps  the  most  striking.  Always,  we 
know,  Greenwich  has  refused  rebelliously  to  con- 
form to  any  rule  of  thumb.  We  know  that  when 
the  Commissioners  checker-boarded  off  the  town 
4-  177 -j- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

they  found  they  couldn't  checker-board  Green- 
wich. It  was  too  independent  and  too  set  in  its 
ways.  It  had  its  lanes  and  trails  and  cow-paths 
and  nothing  could  induce  it  to  become  resigned  to 
straight  streets  and  measured  avenues.  It  would 
not  conform,  and  it  never  has  conformed.  And 
even  more  strenuously  has  its  mental  develop- 
ment defied  the  draughtsman's  compass  and  tri- 
angle. Greenwich  will  not  straighten  its  streets 
nor  conventionalise  its  views.  Its  intellectual 
conclusions  will  always  be  just  as  unexpected  as 
the  squares  and  street  angles  that  one  stumbles  on 
head  first.  Its  habit  of  life  will  be  just  as  weirdly 
individual  as  its  tangled  blocks.  It  asks  nothing 
better  than  to  be  let  alone.  It  does  not  welcome 
tourists,  though  it  is  hospitality  itself  to  way- 
farers seeking  an  open  door.  It  is  the  Village, 
and  it  will  never,  never,  no  never  be  anything 
else — the  Village  of  the  streets  that  wouldn't  be 
straight! 

Janvier,  who  has  already  been  quoted  exten- 
sively, but  who  has  written  of  Greenwich  so  well 
that  his  quotations  can't  be  avoided,  says:  "  In 
addition  to  being  hopelessly  at  odds  with  the  sur- 
rounding city,  Greenwich  is  handsomely  at  vari- 
ance with  itself." 

New  York,  and  especially  Greenwich,  grew  by 
curious  and  indirect  means,  as  we  have  seen. 

•*-  178  -*• 


PAGES  OF  ROMANCE 

This  fact  and  a  lively  and  sympathetic  conscious- 
ness of  it,  leads  often  to  seemingly  irrelevant  di- 
gressions. Yet,  is  it  not  worth  a  moment's  pause 
to  find  out  that  the  stately  site  of  Washington 
Square  North,  as  well  as  other  adjacent  and  select 
territory,  was  originally  the  property  of  two 
visionary  seamen;  and  that  the  present  erratic 
deflection  of  Broadway  came  from  one  obstinate 
Dutchman's  affection  for  his  own  grounds  and  his 
uncompromising  determination  to  use  a  gun  to 
defend  them,  even  against  a  city? 

So,  lest  what  follows  appears  to  be  a  digression 
or  an  irrelevance,  let  me  venture  to  remind  you 
that  the  Village  has  always  grown  not  only  with 
picturesque  results  but  by  picturesque  methods 
and  through  picturesque  mediums.  It  is  frankly, 
incurably  romantic.  Sir  Peter  Warren's  estates, 
or  part  of  them,  were  told  off  in  parcels  by  the 
fine  old  custom  of  dice-throwing.  Here  is  the 
official  record  of  that  episode,  by  the  bye: 

"  In  pursuance  of  the  powers  given  in  the  said 
antenuptial  deeds  the  trustees  therein  named,  on 
March  31,  1787,  agreed  upon  a  partition  of  the 
said  lands,  which  agreement  was  with  the  appro- 
bation and  consent  of  the  cestui  que  trusts,  to  wit: 
Earl  and  Lady  Abingdon,  and  Charles  Fitsroy 
and  Ann  his  wife,  the  said  Susannah  Skinner  the 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

second  not  then  having  arrived  at  age.  In  making 
the  partition,  the  premises  were  divided  into 
three  parts  on  a  survey  made  thereof  and  marked 
A,  B  and  C;  and  it  was  agreed  that  such  parti- 
tion should  be  made  by  each  of  the  trustees  nam- 
ing a  person  to  throw  dice  for  and  in  behalf  of 
their  respective  cestui  que  trusts,  and  that  the 
person  who  should  throw  the  highest  number 
should  have  parcel  A;  the  one  who  should  throw 
the  next  highest  number  parcel  B;  and  the  one 
who  should  throw  the  lowest  number,  parcel  C, — 
for  the  persons  whom  they  respectively  repre- 
sented; and  the  premises  were  partitioned  accord- 
ingly." 

Eleventh  Street  was  never  cut  through  because 
old  Burgher  Brevoort  did  not  want  his  trees  cut 
down  and  argued  conclusively  with  a  blunder- 
buss to  that  effect — a  final  effect.  It  never  has 
been  cut  through,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  to  this  day. 
And  by  way  of  evening  things  up,  Grace  Church, 
which  stands  almost  on  the  disputed  site,  had 
for  architect  one  James  Renwick,  who  married 
the  only  daughter  of  Henry  Brevoort  himself. 
So  by  a  queer  twisted  sort  of  law  of  compensation, 
the  city  gained  rather  than  lost  by  what  a  certain 
disgruntled  historian  calls  the  "  obstinacy  of  one 
Dutch  householder." 

-*-  1 80-*- 


THE  BREVOORT  HOUSE 

".-;..  The  atmosphere  of  chivalry  to  women, 
friendliness  to  men,  and  courtesy  to  every  one,  which 
is,  after  all,  just  the  air  of  France" 


PAGES  OF  ROMANCE 

These  things  are  all  true;  the  most  amazing 
thing  about  Greenwich  Village  is  that  the  most 
unlikely  things  that  you  can  find  out  about  it 
are  true.  The  obvious,  every-day  things  that  are 
easily  believed  are  much  the  most  likely  to  be 
untenable  reports  or  the  day  dreams  of  imagina- 
tive chroniclers.  You  are  safe  if  you  believe  all 
the  quaint  and  romantic  and  inconsistent  and  im- 
possible things  that  come  to  your  knowledge  con- 
cerning the  Village.  That  is  its  special  and 
sacred  privilege:  to  be  unexpected  and  always 
—yes,  always  without  exception — in  the  spirit 
of  its  irrational  and  sympathetic  role.  It 
needs  Kipling's  ambiguous  "  And  when  the 
thing  that  couldn't  has  occurred "  for  a 
motto.  And  yet — and  yet — like  all  true 
nonsense,  this  nonsense  is  rooted  in  a 
beautiful  and  disconcerting  compromise  of 
truth. 

Cities  do  grow  through  their  romances  and 
their  adventures.  The  commonplaces  of  life  never 
opened  up  new  worlds  nor  established  them  after; 
the  prose  of  life  never  served  as  a  song  of  prog- 
ress. Never  a  great  onward  movement  but  was 
called  impossible.  The  things  that  the  sane-and- 
safe  gentleman  accepts  as  good  sense  are  not  the 
things  that  make  for  growth,  anywhere.  And 
the  principle,  applied  to  lesser  things,  holds  good. 
~t-  181  -*- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

Who  wants  to  study  a  city's  life  through  the 
registries  of  its  civic  diseases  or  cures?  We  want 
its  romances,  its  exceptions,  its  absurdities,  its 
adventures.  We  not  only  want  them,  we  must 
have  them.  Despite  all  the  wiseacres  on  earth 
we  care  more  for  the  duel  that  Burr  and  Hamil- 
ton fought  than  for  all  their  individual  achieve- 
ments, good  or  bad.  It  is  the  theatrical  change 
from  the  Potter's  Field  to  the  centre  of  fashion  that 
first  catches  our  fancy  in  the  tale  of  Washington 
Square.  In  fact,  my  friend,  we  are,  first  and 
last,  children  addicted  to  the  mad  yet  harmless 
passion  of  story-telling  and  story-hearing.  I  do 
hope  that,  when  you  read  these  pages,  you  will 
remember  that,  and  be  not  too  stern  in  criticism 
of  sundry  vastly  important  historic  points  which 
are  all  forgot  and  left  out  of  the  scheme — ask- 
ing your  pardon! 

The  Village,  old  or  new,  is  the  home  of  ro- 
mance (as  we  have  said,  it  is  to  be  feared  at 
least  once  or  twice  too  often  ere  this)  and  it  is 
for  us  to  follow  those  sweet  and  crazy  trails  where 
they  may  chance  to  lead. 

Since,  then,  we  are  concerned  chiefly  with  the 
spirit  of  adventure,  we  can  hardly  fail  to  note 
that  this  particular  element  has  haunted  the 
neighbourhood  of  Washington  Square  fairly  con- 
sistently. 

-*-  182  -»• 


PAGES  OF  ROMANCE 

If  you  will  look  at  the  Ratzer  map  you  will 
see  that  the  Elliott  estate  adjoined  the  Brevoort 
lands.  It  is  today  one  of  the  most  variously  im- 
portant regions  in  town,  embracing  as  it  does 
both  Broadway  and  Fifth  Avenue  and  including 
a  most  lively  business  section  and  a  most  exclusive 
aristocratic  quarter.  Andrew  Elliott  was  the  son 
of  Sir  Gilbert  Elliott,  Lord  Chief  Justice,  Clerk 
of  Scotland.  Andrew  was  Receiver  General  of 
the  Province  of  New  York  under  the  Crown  and 
a  most  loyal  Royalist  to  the  last.  When  the  Brit- 
ish rule  passed  he,  in  common  with  many  other 
English  sympathisers,  found  himself  in  an  em- 
barrassing position.  The  De  Lanceys — close 
friends  of  his — lost  their  lands  outright.  But 
Elliott,  like  the  canny  Scotchman  that  he  was, 
was  determined  that  he  would  not  be  served  the 
same  way. 

To  quote  Mr.  J.  H.  Henry,  who  now  handles 
that  huge  property:  "  He  must  have  had  friends! 
Apparently  they  liked  him,  if  they  didn't  like  his 
politics." 

This  is  how  they  managed  it:  He  transferred 
his  entire  estate  to  a  Quaker  friend  of  his  in 
Philadelphia — this  was  before  the  situation  had 
become  too  critical;  then  a  little  group  of  friendly 
New  Yorkers,  among  whom  was  Alexander  Ham- 
ilton, bought  it  in;  next  it  passed  into  the  hands 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

of  one  Friedrich  Charles  Hans  Bruno,  Baron 
Poelnitz,  who  appears  to  have  been  not  much 
more  than  a  figurehead.  However,  it  was  legally 
his  property  at  the  time  of  the  adoption  of  the 
Constitution  of  the  United  States,  and  so  it  was 
not  confiscated.  It  probably  is  safe  to  assume  that 
Mr.  Andrew  Elliott  still  remained  the  power 
behind  the  throne,  and  benefited  by  the  subse- 
quent sale  of  the  land  to  Capt.  Robert  Richard 
Randall. 

Which  brings  us  to  a  most  picturesque  page  of 
New  York  history. 

I  wonder  what  there  is  about  privateering  that 
attracts  even  the  most  law-abiding  imagination. 
This  ancient,  more  than  half  dishonourable,  pro- 
fession has  an  unholy  glamour  about  it  and  there 
are  few  respectable  callings  that  so  appeal  to  the 
colour-loving  fancy.  Not  that  privateering  was 
quite  the  same  as  piracy,  but  it  came  so  close  a 
second  that  the  honest  rogues  who  plied  the  two 
trades  must  often  have  been  in  danger  of  getting 
their  perquisites  and  obligations  somewhat 
merged.  It  would  have  taken  a  very  sharp 
judicial  mind,  or  a  singularly  stout  per- 
sonal conscience,  to  make  the  distinctions 
between  them  in  sundry  and  fairly  numerous 
cases. 

Wilson  says: 

-i-  184^- 


PAGES  OF  ROMANCE 

"  In  these  troublous  and  not  over-squeamish 
times,  when  commerce  was  other  than  the  peace- 
ful pursuit  it  has  since  become,  a  promising  ven- 
ture in  privateering  was  often  preferred  to  slower 
if  safer  sources  of  profit  by  the  strong-stomached 
merchants  and  mariners  of  New  York.  .  .  . 
News  that  piracy  under  the  guise  of  privateering 
was  winked  at  by  the  New  York  authorities 
spread  quickly  among  the  captains  serving  under 
the  black  flag." 

Now  there  never  was  a  lustier  freebooter  of  the 
high  seas  than  Capt.  Thomas  Randall,  known 
familiarly  as  "  Cap'n  Tom,"  commander  of  the 
privateering  ship  Fox,  and  numerous  other  ves- 
sels. This  boat,  a  brigantine,  was  well  named, 
for  she  was  quick  and  sly  and  yet  could  fight  on 
occasion.  Many  a  rich  haul  he  made  in  her  in 
1748,  and  many  a  hairbreadth  escape  shaved  the 
impudent  bow  of  her  on  those  jolly,  nefarious 
voyages  of  hers.  One  of  her  biggest  captures 
was  the  French  ship  L'Amazone.  In  1757 
he  took  out  the  De  Lancey,  a  brigatine,  with 
fourteen  guns,  and  made  some  more  sensational 
captures.  He  is  said  to  have  plied  a  coastwise 
trade  for  the  most  part  from  New  York  to  New 
Orleans,  but,  to  quote  Mr.  Henry  once  more, 
"  The  Captain  went  wherever  the  Spanish  flag 
-«-  185  -*- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

covered  the  largest  amount  of  gold."  At  all 
events  he  amassed  a  prodigious  fortune  even  for 
a  privateer.  In  1758  he  withdrew  from  active 
service  himself,  but  still  sent  out  privateering 
vessels.  Some  of  them  he  lost.  The  De  Lancey 
was  captured,  and  so  was  the  Saucy  Sally — the 
latter  by  the  British  ship  Experiment.  The  De 
Lancey  however  made  some  excellent  hauls  first. 
Peter  Johnson,  a  seaman,  made  a  will  in  1757, 
leaving  to  a  friend  all  debts,  dues  and  "  prize 
money  which  may  become  payable  by  the  cruise 
of  the  De  Lancey,  Captain  Randall  command- 
ing." The  luckless  De  Lancey  was  taken  by  the 
Dutch  off  Curacoa  and  the  crew  imprisoned. 
Perhaps  poor  Johnson  was  one  of  them. 

In  spite  of  occasional  ill-luck  these  were  good 
days  for  the  Captain,  because  the  law,  never  over 
scrupulous,  allowed  him  especial  license,  the  coun- 
try being  at  war.  Never  was  there  a  better  era 
for  adventurers,  never  a  time  when  fortunes  were 
to  be  sought  under  more  favourable  stars! 

A  third  quotation  from  Mr.  Henry: 

"  In  those  days  a  man  was  looked  upon  as  being 
highly  unfortunate  if  he  had  not  a  vessel  which 
he  could  put  to  profitable  use!" 

He  was  part  owner  of  the  Snow  with  sixteen 
guns,  full  owner  of  the  Mary  and  also  of  the 
Lively.  He  had  a  bad  time  in  connection  with 

-«-  186-1- 


PAGES  OF  ROMANCE 

the  latter.  He  sent  her  out  with  Thomas  Quig- 
ley  for  captain.  Quigley  took  the  little  schooner 
down  the  Jersey  coast  and  stayed  there.  He 
never  put  out  to  sea  at  all.  He  rode  comfortably 
at  anchor  near  shore  and  when  he  ran  out  of 
rum  put  in  and  got  more.  After  a  while  the 
mates  and  crew  sent  in  a  round  robin  to  Captain 
Randall  telling  him  the  story.  The  Lively  was 
swiftly  called  in  and — what  Captain  Tom  did  to 
Quigley  history  does  not  state! 

The  jolly  piratical  seaman  did  finely  and  flour- 
ished, green-bay  like,  in  the  sight  of  men.  He 
was  not  without  honours  either.  When  Washing- 
ton was  rowed  from  Elizabethtown  Point  to  the 
first  inauguration,  his  barge  was  manned  by  a 
crew  of  thirteen  ships'  captains,  and  he  who  had 
the  signal  distinction  of  being  coxswain  of  that 
historic  boat's  company,  was  Cap'n  Tom! 

Indeed  there  seems  to  be  abundant  proof  that 
the  Captain  engineered  the  whole  proceeding.  It 
is  certain  that  it  was  he  who  presented  the  "  Presi- 
dential barge  "  to  Washington  for  his  use  during 
his  stay  in  New  York,  and  he  who  selected  that 
unusual  crew, — practically  every  noted  ship- 
master then  in  port.  On  the  President's  final 
departure  for  Mount  Vernon,  he  again  used  the 
barge,  putting  out  from  the  foot  of  Whitehall 
and  when  he  reached  Elizabethtown,  he  very 
-*-  187-!- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

courteously  returned  it  as  a  gift  to  Captain 
Randall,  and  wrote  him  a  letter  of  warm 
thanks. 

It  is  believed  that  Captain  Thomas  came  from 
Scotland  some  time  in  the  early  part  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  but  we  know  nothing  of  his 
antecedents  and  not  much  of  his  private  life.  He 
married  in  America,  but  we  do  not  know  the 
name  of  his  wife.  We  do  know  that  in  1775  his 
son,  Robert  Richard,  was  a  youth  of  nineteen  and 
a  student  at  Columbia.  This  was  the  same  year 
that  the  old  Captain  was  serving  on  important 
committees  and  playing  a  conspicuous  part  in 
public  affairs.  Oh,  yes!  he  was  a  most  eminent 
citizen,  and  no  one  thought  a  whit  the  worse  of 
him  for  what  he  called  his  "  honest  privateering." 
He  was  a  member  of  the  Legislature  in  1784 
and  voted  in  favour  of  bringing  in  tea  free- 
when  it  was  carried  by  American  ships! 

And  I  picture  Cap'n  Tom  as  a  stout  and 
hearty  rogue,  with  an  open  hand  and  heart  and 
a  certain  cheery  fashion  of  plying  his  shady  call- 
ing, rather  endearing  than  otherwise  (I  have  no 
notion  of  his  real  looks  nor  qualities,  but  one's 
imagination  must  have  its  fling  on  occasion!). 
After  all,  there  is  not  such  a  vast  difference  be- 
tween the  manner  of  Sir  Peter  Warren's  gains 
and  Cap'n  Tom  Randall's.  You  may  call  a  thing 
-1-188-1- 


PAGES  OF  ROMANCE 

by  one  name  or  by  another,  but,  when  it  comes 
down  to  it,  is  the  business  of  capturing  enemy 
prize  ships  in  order  to  grow  rich  on  the  proceeds 
so  different  from  holding  up  merchantmen  for  the 
same  reason?  But  we  are  concerned  for  the  mo- 
ment with  the  Randalls,  father  and  son,  and  most 
excellent  fellows  they  appear  to  have  both  been. 
I  should  like  to  believe  that  Cap'n  Tom  owned 
a  cutlass,  but  I  fear  it  was  a  bit  late  for 
that! 

Captain  Tom  appears  to  have  been  generous 
and  kindly, — like  most  persons  of  questionable 
and  picturesque  careers.  The  Silversmith  who 
left  his  entire  belongings  to  the  Captain  in  1796 
is  but  one  of  many  who  had  reason  to  love  him. 
One  historian  declares  that  he  settled  down, 
after  retiring  from  the  sea,  and  "  became  a  re- 
spectable merchant  at  10  Hanover  Street,"  where 
he  piled  up  more  and  more  gold  to  leave  his  son 
Robert  Richard.  But  it  is  a  matter  of  record 
that  the  address  at  which  he  died  was  8  White- 
hall. On  Friday,  October  27,  1797,  he  set  forth 
on  his  last  cruise, — after  seventy-four  adventurous 
years  on  earthly  seas. 

He  died   much    respected, — by   no    one    more 

than  his  son,  Robert  Richard  Randall,  who  had 

an   immense   admiration   and    reverence   for   his 

memory.     It  was  he  who,   in   1790,  bought  the 

-*-  189  -*- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

Elliott  estate  from  "  Baron "  Poelnitz,  for  the 
sum  of  five  thousand  pounds — a  handsome  prop- 
erty of  some  twenty-four  acres  covering  the  space 
between  Fourth  and  Fifth  avenues,  Waverly 
Place  and  approximately  Ninth  Street.  The 
Elliott  house  which  has  been  described  as  being 
of  "  red  brick  with  white  "  was  clearly  a  rather 
pretentious  affair,  and  stood,  says  Mrs.  Lamb, 
so  that  Broadway  when  it  was  laid  down  "  clipped 
the  rear  porch." 

It  is  a  curious  fact  and  worthy  of  note  that 
the  old,  original  house  stood  undamaged  until 
1828,  and  that,  being  sold  at  auction  and  removed 
at  that  date,  its  materials  were  used  in  a  house 
which  a  few  years  ago  was  still  in  good  condition. 

Robert  Richard  Randall  was  also,  like  his 
father,  known  as  "  Captain,"  though  there  is  no 
record  of  his  ever  having  gone  to  sea  as  a  sailor. 
Indeed  he  would  scarcely  have  been  made  an 
"  honourary  "  member  of  the  Marine  Society  had 
he  been  a  real  shipmaster.  Courtesy  titles  were 
de  rigueur  in  those  days,  when  a  man  was  popu- 
lar, and  he  appears  to  have  been  thoroughly  so. 

When  it  came  time  for  him,  too,  to  die,  he 
paid  his  father's  calling  what  tribute  he  could 
by  the  terms  of  his  will. 

His  lawyer — no  less  a  person  that  Alexander 
Hamilton  himself — called  to  discuss  the  terms  of 
•+-  190  ~t- 


PAGES  OF  ROMANCE 

this  last  document.  By  the  bye,  Hamilton's  part 
in  the  affair  is  traditional  and  legendary  rather 
than  a  matter  of  official  record; — certainly  his 
name  does  not  appear  in  connection  with  the 
will.  But  Hamilton  was  the  lawyer  of  Randall's 
sister,  and  a  close  family  friend,  so  the  story  may 
more  easily  be  true  than  false. 

This,  then,  is  the  way  it  goes :  Alexander  Ham- 
ilton was  summoned  to  make  out  the  last  will 
and  testament,  or  at  least,  to  advise  concerning  it. 
Randall  was  already  growing  weak,  but  had  a 
clear  and  determined  notion  of  what  he  wanted 
to  do  with  his  money.  This  was  on  June  i,  1801. 
The  dying  man  left  a  number  of  small  bequests 
to  friends,  families  and  servants,  before  he  came 
to  the  real  business  on  his  mind.  His  bequests, 
besides  money,  included,  "  unto  Betsey  Hart,  my 
housekeeper,  my  gold  sleeve  buttons,"  and  unto 
Adam  Shields,  my  faithful  overseer,  my  gold 
watch,"  and  "  unto  Gawn  Irwin,  who  now  lives 
with  me,  my  shoe-buckles  and  knee-buckles." 
Adam  Shields  married  Betsey  Hart.  They  were 
both  Scotch — probably  from  whatever  part  of 
Scotland  the  Randalls  hailed  in  the  first  place. 

When  these  matters  were  disposed  of,  he  began 

to  speak  of  what  was  nearest  his  heart    He  had 

a  good  deal  of  money;  he  wanted  to  leave  it  to 

some  lasting  use.     Hamilton  asked  how  he  had 

-*-  191  -+• 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

made  his  money,  and  Randall  explained  he  had 
inherited  it  from  his  father. 

"  And  how  did  he  get  it? "  asked  the  great 
lawyer. 

"By  honest  privateering!"  declared  Captain 
Tom's  son  proudly. 

And  then,  or  so  the  story  goes,  he  went  on  to 
whisper: 

"  My  father's  fortune  all  came  from  the  sea. 
He  was  a  seaman,  and  a  good  one.  He  had 
money,  so  he  never  suffered  when  he  was  worn 
out,  but  all  are  not  like  that.  I  want  to  make  a 
place  for  the  others.  I  want  it  to  be  a  snug 
harbour  for  tired  sailors" 

So  the  will,  July  10,  1801,  reads  that  Robert 
Richard  Randall's  property  is  left  to  found:  "An 
Asylum  or  Marine  Hospital,  to  be  called  '  The 
Sailors'  Snug  Harbour,'  for  the  purpose  of  main- 
taining aged,  decrepit,  worn-out  sailors." 

One  of  the  witnesses,  by  the  bye,  was  Henry 
Brevoort. 

The  present  bust  of  Randall  which  stands 
in  the  Asylum  is,  of  course,  quite  apocryphal 
as  to  likeness.  No  one  knows  what  he  looked 
like,  but  out  of  such  odds  and  ends  of  in- 
formation as  the  knee-buckles  and  so  on,  men- 
tioned in  the  will,  the  artistic  imagination  of  St. 
Gaudens  evolved  a  veritable  beau  of  a  mariner, 

-*-  192  -»- 


PAGES  OF  ROMANCE 

with  knee-buckles  positively  resplendent  and  an 
Admiral's  wig.  And,  though  it  may  not  be  a 
good  likeness,  it  is  an  agreeable  enough  ideal,  and 
I  think  everyone  approves  of  it. 

Robert  Richard  Randall  is  buried  down  there 
now  and  on  his  monument  is  a  simple  and  rather 
impressive  inscription  commemorating  this  char- 
ity which — so  it  puts  it — was  "  conceived  in  a 
spirit  of  enlarged  Benevolence." 

Shortly  afterwards  he  died,  but  his  will,  in 
spite  of  the  inevitable  wrangling  and  litigation 
of  disgusted  relations,  lived  on,  and  the  Snug 
Harbour  for  Tired  Sailors  is  an  accomplished 
fact.  Randall  had  meant  it  to  be  built  on  his 
property  there — a  good  "  seeded-to-grass "  farm 
land, — and  thought  that  the  grain  and  vegetables 
for  the  sailor  inmates  of  this  Snug  Harbour  on 
land  could  be  grown  on  the  premises.  But  the 
trustees  decided  to  build  the  institution  on  Staten 
Island.  The  New  York  Washington  Square  prop- 
erty, however,  is  still  called  the  Sailors'  Snug 
Harbour  Estate,  and  through  its  tremendous  in- 
crease in  value  the  actual  asylum  was  benefited 
incalculably.  At  the  time  of  Captain  Randall's 
death,  the  New  York  estate  brought  in  about 
$4,000  a  year.  Today  it  is  about  $400,000, — and 
every  cent  goes  to  that  real  Snug  Harbour  for 
Tired  Sailors  out  near  the  blue  waters  of  Staten 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

Island.  So  the  "  honest  privateering "  fortune 
has  made  at  least  one  impossible  seeming  dream 
come  true. 

As  time  went  on  this  section — the  Sailors' 
Snug  Harbour  Estate  and  the  Brevoort  property 
— was  destined  to  become  New  York's  most  fash- 
ionable quarter.  Its  history  is  the  history  of 
American  society,  no  less,  and  one  can  have  no 
difficulty  in  visualising  an  era  in  which  a  certain 
naive  ceremony  combined  in  piquant  fashion  with 
the  sturdy  solidity  of  the  young  and  vigorous 
country.  In  the  correspondence  of  Henry  Bre- 
voort and  Washington  Irving  and  others  one  gets 
delightful  little  pictures — vignettes,  as  it  were— 
of  social  life  of  that  day.  Mr.  Emmet  writes 
begging  for  some  snuff  "  no  matter  how  old.  It 
may  be  stale  and  flat  but  cannot  be  unprofitable!  " 
Brevoort  asks  a  friend  to  dine  "  On  Thursday 
next  at  half-past  four  o'clock."  He  paints  us  a 
quaint  sketch  of  "  a  little,  round  old  gentleman, 
returning  heel  taps  into  decanters,"  at  a  soiree, 
adding:  "  His  heart  smote  him  at  beholding  the 
waste  &  riot  of  his  dear  adopted."  We  read  of 
tea  drinkings  and  coaches  and  his  father's  famous 
blunderbuss  or  "  long  gun  "  which  he  is  present- 
ing to  Irving.  And  there  are  other  chroniclers 
of  the  times.  Lossing,  the  historian,  quotes  an 
anonymous  friend  as  follows: 

-«-  194  -»- 


PAGES  OF  ROMANCE 

"  We  thought  there  was  a  goodly  display  of 
wealth  and  diamonds  in  those  days,  but,  God  bless 
my  soul,  when  I  hear  of  the  millions  amassed  by 
the  Vanderbilts,  Goulds,  Millses,  Villards  and 
others  of  that  sort,  I  realise  what  a  poor  little 
doughnut  of  a  place  New  York  was  at  that  early 
period!  " 

He  goes  on  to  speak  of  dinner  at  three — a  for- 
mal dinner  party  at  four.  The  first  private  car- 
riage was  almost  mobbed  on  Broadway.  Mrs. 
Jacob  Little  had  "  a  very  showy  carriage  lined 
with  rose  colour  and  a  darky  coachman  in  blue 
livery." 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Henry  Brevoort's  house  stood  on 
the  corner  of  Fifth  Avenue  and  Ninth  Street — it 
is  now  occupied  by  the  Charles  de  Rhams.  And 
it  chanced  to  be  the  scene  of  a  certain  very 
pretty  little  romance  which  can  scarcely  be 
passed  over  here. 

New  York,  as  a  matter  of  course,  copied  her 
fashionable  standards  from  older  lands.  While 
Manhattan  society  was  by  no  means  a  supine  and 
merely  imitative  affair,  the  country  was  too  new 
not  to  cling  a  bit  to  English  and  French  for- 
malities. The  great  ladies  of  the  day  made 
something  of  a  point  of  their  "  imported  amuse- 
ments "  as  having  a  specific  claim  on  fashionable 

-«-  195 -j- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

favour.  So  it  came  about  that  the  fascinating 
innovation  of  the  masked  ball  struck  the  fancy 
of  fashionable  New  York.  There  was  some- 
thing very  daring  about  the  notion;  it  smacked 
of  Latin  skies  and  manners  and  suggested  pos- 
sibilities of  romance  both  licensed  and  not  which 
charmed  the  ladies,  even  as  it  abashed  them. 
There  were  those  who  found  it  a  project  scarcely 
in  good  taste;  it  is  said  indeed  that  there  was 
no  end  of  a  flutter  concerning  it.  But  be  that 
as  it  may,  the  masked  ball  was  given, — the  first 
that  New  York  had  ever  known,  and,  it  may  be 
mentioned,  the  very  last  it  was  to  know  for  many 
a  long,  discreet  year! 

Haswell  says  that  in  this  year  there  was  a 
"  fancy  "  ball  given  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Henry  Bre- 
voort  and  that  the  date  was  February  24th.  It 
certainly  was  the  same  one,  but  he  adds  that  it 
was  generally  pronounced  "  most  successful." 
This  one  may  doubt,  since  the  results  made 
masked  balls  so  severely  thought  of  that  there 
was,  a  bit  later,  a  fine  of  $1,000  imposed  on 
anyone  who  should  give  one, — one-half  to  be 
deducted  if  you  told  on  yourself! 

Nevertheless,  George  S.  Hellman  says  that  Mrs. 
Brevoort's  ball,   February  24,    1840, — was   "  the 
most  splendid  social   affair  of   the  first  half  of 
the  nineteenth  century  in  New  York." 
•*-  196  -*- 


PAGES  OF  ROMANCE 

There  was  great  preparation  for  it,  and  prac- 
tically all  "  society "  was  asked — and  nothing 
and  nobody  else.  It  was  incidentally  the  occa- 
sion of  the  first  "  society  reporting."  Attree,  of 
the  New  York  Herald,  was  an  invited  guest  and 
went  in  costume — quite  an  innovation  for  con- 
servative old  Manhattan. 

Lossing  tells  us :  "  At  the  close  of  this  decade 
the  features  of  New  York  society  presented  con- 
spicuous transformations.  Many  exotic  customs 
prevailed,  both  public  and  private,  and  the  ex- 
pensive pleasures  of  the  Eastern  Hemisphere  had 
been  transplanted  and  taken  firm  root.  Among 
other  imported  amusements  was  the  masked  ball, 
the  first  of  which  occurred  in  the  city  of  New 
York  in  1840,  and  produced  a  profound  sensa- 
tion, not  only  per  se,  but  because  of  an  attending 
circumstance  which  stirred  '  society '  to  its  foun- 
dation." 

The  British  Consul  in  New  York  at  that 
time  was  Anthony  Barclay, — he  lived  at  Col- 
lege Place, — who  was  destined  later  to  fall  into 
evil  repute,  by  raising  recruits  here  during  the 
Crimean  trouble.  He  had  a  daughter,  Matilda, 
who  was  remarkably  lovely  and — if  we  may 
believe  reports — a  very  great  belle  in  Ameri- 
can society.  She  had  a  number  of  "  suitors,"  as 
they  were  gracefully  called  in  those  days,  and 
•+-  197  -+• 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

among  them  was  one  Burgwyne,  from  South 
Carolina — very  young,  and,  we  may  take  it, 
rather  poor. 

Lossing  says:  "There  was  also  in  attendance  a 
gay,  young  South  Carolinian  named  Burgwyne." 

The  Consul  and  Mrs.  Barclay  disapproved  of 
him  strongly.  But  Matilda  who  was  beautiful, 
warm-blooded  and  wayward  did  not.  She  loved 
Burgwyne  with  a  reciprocal  ardour,  and  when 
the  masked  ball  at  the  Brevoorts'  came  on  the 
tapis  it  seemed  as  though  the  Goddess  of  Romance 
had  absolutely  stretched  out  her  hands  to  these 
two  reckless,  but  adorable  lovers. 

They  had  a  favourite  poem — most  lovers 
have  favourite  poems; — theirs  was  "  Lalla 
Rookh." 

There  may  be  diverse  opinions  as  to  Thomas 
Moore's  greatness,  but  there  can  scarcely  be  two 
as  to  his  lyric  gift.  He  could  write  charming 
love-songs,  simple  and  yet  full  of  colour,  and, 
given  the  Oriental  theme,  it  is  no  wonder  that 
youths  and  maidens  of  his  day  sighed  and  smiled 
over  "  Lalla  Rookh "  as  over  nothing  that  had 
yet  been  written  for  them.  It  is  a  delightful  tale, 
half-prose  and  half-poetry,  written  entirely  and 
whole-heartedly  for  lovers,  and  Burgwyne  and 
Matilda  found  it  easy  to  put  themselves  in  the 
places  of  the  romantic  characters  in  the  drama — 
-*-  198  -*• 


GROVE   STREET 

Looking  toward  St.  Luke's  Church 


PAGES  OF  ROMANCE 

Lalla  Rookh,  the  incomparably  beautiful  East- 
ern Princess  and  Feramorz,  the  young  Prince 
in  disguise,  "  graceful  as  that  idol  of  women, 
Crishna." 

They  secretly  agreed  to  go  to  the  masked  ball 
at  the  Brevoorts'  as  their  romantic  favourites  and 
prototypes.  The  detailed  descriptions  in  the  book 
gave  them  sufficient  inspiration.  She  wore  float- 
ing gauzes,  bracelets,  "  a  small  coronet  of  jewels  " 
and  "  a  rose-coloured,  bridal  veil."  His  dress 
was  "  simple,  yet  not  without  marks  of  costliness," 
with  a  "  high  Tartarian  cap.  .  .  .  Here  and 
there,  too,  over  his  vest,  which  was  confined  by  a 
flowered  girdle  of  Kaskan,  hung  strings  of  fine 
pearls,  disposed  with  an  air  of  studied  negli- 
gence." 

So  they  met  at  the  ball  and  danced  together,  and 
I  suppose  he  quoted: 

"Fly  to  the  desert,  fly  with  me, 
Our  Arab  tents  are  rude  for  thee; 
But,  oh!  the  choice  what  heart  can  doubt, 
Of  tents  with  love,  or  thrones  without?  " 

Obviously  she  chose  the  tents  with  love,  for 
as  the  clock  struck  four  they  slipped  away  to- 
gether and  were  married! 

As  Lossing  puts  it: 

-*-  199  -t- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

"  They  left  the  festive  scene  together  at  four 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  were  married  before 
breakfast." 

They  did  not  change  their  costumes,  dear 
things!  They  wanted  the  romantic  trappings  for 
their  love  poem — a  love  poem  which  was  to 
them  more  enchanting — more  miraculous — than 
that  of  Lalla  Rookh  and  the  King  of  Bucharia. 
I  hope  they  lived  happily  ever  after,  like  the 
brave,  young  romanticists  they  were! 

In  1835  a  hotel  was  opened  on  the  corner  of 
Eighth  Street  and  Fifth  Avenue,  and  it  was  ap- 
propriately named  for  the  illustrious  family  over 
the  way.  The  Brevoort  House  is  certainly  as 
historic  a  pile,  socially  speaking,  as  lower  New 
York  has  to  offer.  Arthur  Bartlett  Maurice  says 
of  it: 

"  In  the  old-time  novels  of  New  York  life  visit- 
ing Englishmen  invariably  stopped  at  the  Bre- 
voort." 

Of  this  hotel  more  anon,  since  it  has  recently 
become  knit  into  the  fabric  of  the  modern 
Village. 

But  a  scant  two  blocks  away  from  the  Brevoort 
stands  another  hostelry  which  is  indissolubly  a 
part  of  New  York's  growth — especially  the 
growth  of  her  Artist's  Colony.  It  is  the  Lafayette, 

-*-  200  -*- 


PAGES  OF  ROMANCE 

or  as  many  of  its  habitues  still  love  to  call  it — • 
"The  Old  Martin."  This,  the  first  and  most 
famous  French  restaurant  of  New  York,  needs  a 
special  word  or  two.  It  must  be  considered  alone, 
and  not  in  the  company  of  lesser  and  more  mod- 
ern eating  places. 

John  Reed  says  that  the  "  Old  Martin  "  was  the 
real  link  between  the  old  Village  and  the  new, 
since  it  was  the  cradle  of  artistic  life  in  New 
York.  Bohemians,  he  declared,  first  fore- 
gathered there  as  Bohemians,  and  the  beginnings 
of  what  has  become  America's  Latin  Quarter  and 
Soho  there  first  saw  the  light  of  day — or  rather 
the  lights  of  midnight. 

Jean  Baptiste  Martin  who  had  been  running  a 
hotel  in  Panama  during  the  first  excavations 
there — made  by  the  French,  as  you  may  or  may 
not  remember — came  to  New  York  in  1883.  He 
had  been  here  the  year  before  for  a  time  and 
had  decided  the  city  needed  a  French  hotel. 
He  arrived  on  the  25th  of  June,  and  on  the 
26th  he  bought  the  hotel!  He  chose  a  house  on 
University  Place — No.  17 — a  little  pension  kept 
by  one  Eugene  Larru,  and  from  time  to  time 
bought  the  adjoining  houses  and  built  extensions 
until  he  had  made  it  the  building  we  see  today. 
He  called  it  the  Hotel  de  Panama. 

But  it  was  not  as  the  Hotel  de  Panama  that 

-J-  2OI  -t- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

it  won  its  unique  place  in  the  hearts  of  New 
Yorkers.  "  In  1886,"  Mr.  Martin  says,  "I  de- 
cided to  change  the  name  of  my  place.  '  Panama  ' 
gave  people  a  bad  impression.  They  associated 
it  with  fever  and  Spaniards,  and  neither  were 
popular!  So  it  became  the  Hotel  Martin.  Then, 
when  I  started  another  restaurant  at  Twenty- 
sixth  Street,  the  *  Old  Martin '  became  the 
Lafayette." 

The  artists  and  writers  came  to  the  Hotel 
Martin  to  invite  their  respective  Muses  inspired 
by  Mr.  Martin's  excellent  food  and  drink.  From 
the  bachelors'  quarters  on  the  nearby  square — the 
Benedick  and  other  studio  houses — shabby,  am- 
bitious young  men  came  in  droves.  Mr.  Martin 
remembers  "  Bob "  Chambers,  and  some  young 
newspaper  men  from  the  World — Goddard,  Man- 
son  and  others.  From  uptown  the  great  for- 
eigners came  down — some  of  them  stayed  there, 
indeed.  In  1889,  approximately,  it  started  its 
biggest  boom,  and  it  went  on  steadily.  Ask 
either  Mr.  Martin  or  its  present  proprietor,  Mr. 
Raymond  Orteig,  and  he  will  tell  you,  and 
truthfully,  that  it  has  never  flagged,  that 
"  boom."  The  place  is  as  popular  as  ever, 
because,  in  a  changing  world,  a  changing  era 
and  a  signally  changing  town,  it — does  not 
change. 

-*-  202  -*• 


PAGES  OF  ROMANCE 

It  was  to  the  Hotel  Martin  that  the  famous  sing- 
ers came — Jean  and  Edouard  de  Reszke  and  Pol 
Plangon  and  Melba;  the  French  statesman,  Jules 
Cambon,  used  to  come,  and  Maurice  Grau — then 
the  manager  of  the  Metropolitan — and  Chartran, 
the  celebrated  painter,  and  the  great  Ysaye  and 
Bartholdi.  And  Paulus — Koster  and  Bial's  first 
French  importation — to  say  nothing  of  Anna 
Held  and  Sandow! 

A  motley  company  enough,  to  be  sure,  and 
certainly  one  worthy  to  form  the  nucleus  of 
New  York's  Bohemia. 

Says  Mr.  Martin:  "The  most  interesting  thing 
that  ever  happened  in  the  i  Old  Martin '?  I 
can  tell  you  that  quite  easily.  It  was  the  blizzard 
of  1888,  when  we  were  snowed  in.  The  horse 
cars  ran  on  University  Place  then,  the  line 
terminating  at  Barclay  Street.  I  have  a  picture 
of  one  car  almost  snowed  under,  for  the  snow 
was  fully  six  feet  deep.  It  was  a  Saturday  night 
and  very  crowded.  When  it  became  time  for 
the  people  to  go  home  they  could  not  go.  So 
they  had  to  stay,  and  they  stayed  three  days. 
They  slept  on  billiard  tables,  on  the  floor  or 
where  they  could.  We  did  our  best,  but  it  was 
a  big  crowd.  Interesting?  It  was  most  interest- 
ing indeed  to  me,  for  I  could  get  no  milk.  I 
could  supply  them  with  all  the  wine  they  wanted, 
-*-  203  -*- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

but  no  milk!  And  they  demanded  milk  for  their 
coffee.  Oh,  that  blizzard!" 

Mr.  Martin,  in  remembering  interesting  epi- 
sodes, forgot  that  trifling  incident — the  Spanish- 
American  War,  in  1898.  Whether  because  of 
his  early  connections  with  Panama  (there  were 
countless  Spaniards  and  Mexicans  who  patronised 
the  hotel  at  that  time)  or  whether  because  of  a 
national  and  political  misunderstanding,  he  was 
justifiably  and  seriously  concerned  as  to  the  feel- 
ing of  New  York  for  the  Hotel  Martin.  Many 
good  and  wise  persons  expected  France  to  side 
with  Spain,  and  many  others  watched  curiously  to 
see  what  Frenchmen  in  New  York  would  do. 

Mr.  Martin  left  them  but  a  short  time  for 
speculation.  Today,  with  our  streets  aflutter  with 
Allied  colours,  perhaps  we  fail  to  appreciate  an 
individual  demonstration  such  as  this — but  at 
that  time  there  were  few  banners  flying,  and  Mr. 
Martin  led  the  patriotic  movement  with  an 
American  flag  in  every  one  of  the  fifty  windows 
of  the  Hotel  Martin  and  a  French  flag  to  top  off 
the  whole  display!  Perhaps  it  was  the  first 
suggestion,  in  street  decoration,  of  what  has  re- 
cently proved  to  be  so  strong  a  bond  between 
this  nation  and  France. 

If  any  of  you  who  read  have  even  begun  to 
peer  into  Bohemian  New  York  you  have  un- 

-*-  204-*- 


PAGES  OF  ROMANCE 

doubtedly  visited  the  Lafayette  as  it  is  today. 
And,  if  you  have,  you  have  undoubtedly  seen  or 
perhaps  even  played  the  "  Lafayette  Game."  It 
is  a  weird  little  game  that  is  played  for  drinks, 
and  requires  quite  a  bit  of  skill.  It  is  well  known 
to  all  frequenters ;  the  only  odd  thing  is  that  it  is 
not  better  known. 

"Americans  are  funny!"  laughs  Raymond 
Orteig.  "  When  I  go  abroad  and  see  something 
which  is  new  and  different  from  what  has  been 
before,  my  instinct  is  to  get  hold  of  it  and  bring 
it  back.  If  I  can  I  bring  it  back  in  actual  bulk; 
if  I  were  a  writer  I  would  bring  it  back  in 
another  way.  But  through  these  years,  while 
everyone  has  played  our  absurd  little  game,  no 
one  has  ever  suggested  writing  about  it — until 
tonight!" 

Its  name?  It  is  Culbuto.  That  is  French, — 
practically  applied, — for  failure!  It  is,  you  see, 
an  effort  to  keep  the  little  balls  from  falling 
into  the  wrong  holes.  As  it  so  often  results  in 
failure  Culbuto  is  an  ideal  game  to  play  for 
drinks!  Someone  has  to  pay  all  the  time!  It 
is  an  unequal  contest  between  the  individual  and 
the  law  of  gravity! 

But  we  must  not  linger  too  long  at  the  Lafay- 
ette, alluring  though  it  may  be.  All  Greenwich 
is  beckoning  to  us,  a  few  blocks  away.  We  have 
-*-  205  -*- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

a  new  world  to  explore — the  world  below  Four- 
teenth Street. 

Fourteenth  Street  is  the  boundary  line  which 
marks  the  Greenwich  Village's  utmost  city  limits, 
as  it  marked  those  of  our  great-grandfathers. 
Like  a  wall  it  stands  across  the  town  separating 
the  new  from  the  old  uncompromisingly.  Miss 
Euphemia  Olcott,  who  has  been  quoted  here  be- 
fore, describes  the  evolution  of  Fourteenth  Street 
in  the  following  interesting  way: 

"  Fourteenth  Street  between  Fifth  and  Sixth 
Avenues  I  have  seen  with  three  sets  of  buildings 
— first  shanties  near  Sixth  Avenue  from  the  rear 
of  which  it  was  rumoured  a  bogy  would  be  likely 
to  pursue  and  kidnap  us.  ...  These  shanties 
were  followed  by  fine,  brownstone  residences. 
.  .  .  Some  of  these,  however,  I  think  came 
when  there  had  ceased  to  be  a  village.  Later  on 
came  business  into  Fourteenth  Street.  ..." 

And  today  those  never-to-be-sufficiently-pitied 
folk  who  live  in  the  Fifties  and  Sixties  and  Seven- 
ties think  of  Fourteenth  Street  as  downtown! 


206 


Restaurants,  and  the  Magic  Door 


CHAPTER  VII 
Restaurants,  and  the  Magic  Door 


What  scenes  in  fiction  cling  more  persistently  in  the  memory 
than  those  that  deal  with  the  satisfying  of  man's  appetite  ?  Who 
ever  heard  of  a  dyspeptic  hero?  Are  not  your  favourites  be- 
yond the  Magic  Door  all  good  trenchermen  ? 

— ARTHUR  BARTLETT  MAURICE. 


T  was  O.  Henry,  I  believe,  who  spoke 
of  restaurants  as  "  literary  landmarks." 
They  are  really  much  more  than  that — 
they  are  signposts,  psychical  rather  than 
physical,  which  show  the  trend  of  the  times — or 
of  the  neighbourhood.  I  suppose  nothing  in 
Greenwich  Village  could  be  more  significantly 
illuminating  than  its  eating  places.  There  are, 
of  course,  many  sorts.  The  Village  is  neither  so 
unique  nor  so  uniform  as  to  have  only  one  sort 
of  popular  board.  But  in  all  the  typical  Green- 
wich restaurants  you  will  find  the  same  elusive 
something,  the  spirit  of  the  picturesque,  the  un- 
trammelled, the  quaint  and  charming — in  short, 
the  different! 

-j-  209  -+• 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

The  Village  is  not  only  a  locality,  you  under- 
stand, it  is  a  point  of  view.  It  reaches  out  im- 
periously and  fastens  on  what  it  will.  The  Bre- 
voort  basement — after  ten  o'clock  at  night — is 
the  Village.  So  is  the  Lafayette  on  occasion. 
During  the  day  they  are  delightful  French  hos- 
telries  catering  to  all  the  world  who  like 
heavenly  things  to  eat  and  the  right  atmosphere 
in  which  to  eat  them.  But  as  the  magic  hour 
strikes,  presto! — they  suffer  a  sea  change  and 
become  the  quintessence  of  the  Spirit  of  the 
Village! 

It  is  10.20  P.M.  at  the  Brevoortin  the  restaurant 
upstairs.  All  the  world  and  his  wife — or  his 
sweetheart — are  fully  represented.  Most  of  the 
uptowners — the  regulation  clientele — are  going 
away,  having  finished  gorging  themselves  on 
delectable  things;  some  few  of  them  are  linger- 
ing, lazily  curious;  a  certain  small  number 
are  still  coming  in,  moved  by  that  restless 
Manhattanic  spirit  that  hates  to  go  home  in  the 
dark. 

Among  these  is  a  discontented,  well-dressed 
couple,  seen  half  an  hour  before  completing  their 
dinner  a  block  away  at  the  Lafayette.  The  head 
waiter  at  that  restaurant  explained  them  non- 
chalantly, not  to  say  casually: 

"  It  is  the  gentleman  who  married  his  mani- 

-*-  2IO  -*- 


RESTAURANTS,  AND  THE  MAGIC  DOOR 

curist.  Regard,  then — one  perceives  they  are  not 
happy — eh?  It  is  understood  that  she  beats 
him." 

Yonder  is  a  moving-picture  star,  quite  alone, 
eating  a  great  deal,  and  looking  blissfully  con- 
tent. There  is  a  man  who  has  won  a  fortune 
in  war-brides — the  one  at  the  next  table  did  it 
with  carpets.  There  is  a  great  lady — a  very  great 
lady  indeed — who,  at  this  season,  should  be  out 
of  town. 

Swiftly  moving,  deft-handed  waiters,  the  faint 
perfume  of  delicate  food,  the  sparkle  of  light 
upon  rare  wine,  the  complex  murmur  of  a  well- 
filled  dining-room.  It  is  so  far  not  strikingly 
different,  in  the  impression  it  gives,  from  uptown 
restaurants. 

But  the  hands  of  the  clock  are  pointing  to  the 
half-hour  after  ten. 

Hasten,  then,  to  the  downstairs  cafe, — the  two 
rooms,  sunk  below  the  level  of  Fifth  Avenue,  yet 
cool  and  airy.  If  you  hurry  you  will  be  just  in 
time  to  see  the  Village  come  in.  For  this  is  their 
really  favourite  haunt — their  Mecca  when  their 
pockets  will  stand  it — the  Village  Restaurant 
de  Luxe! 

Upstairs  are  exquisite  frocks  and  impeccable 
evening  clothes;  good  jewels  and,  incidentally, 
a  good  many  tired  faces — from  uptown.  Down 

-*-  211  -?- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

here  it  is  different.  The  crowd  is  younger,  poorer, 
more  strikingly  bizarre — immeasurably  more  in- 
teresting. Everyone  here  does  something,  or 
thinks  he  does — which  is  just  as  good; — or  pre- 
tends to — which  is  next  best.  There  is  a  startling 
number  of  girls.  Girls  in  smocks  of  "  artistic  " 
shades — bilious  yellow-green,  or  magenta-tending 
violet;  girls  with  hair  that,  red,  black  or  blonde, 
is  usually  either  arranged  in  a  wildly  natural 
bird's-nest  mass,  or  boldly  clubbed  after  the 
fashion  of  Joan  of  Arc  and  Mrs.  Vernon  Castle; 
girls  with  tense  little  faces,  slender  arms  and  an 
astonishing  capacity  as  to  cigarettes.  And  men 
who,  for  the  most  part,  are  too  busy  with  their 
ideals  to  cut  their  hair;  men  whose  collars  may 
be  low  and  rolling,  or  high  and  bound  with  black 
silk  stocks  after  the  style  of  another  day;  men 
who  are,  variously,  affectedly  natural  or  nat- 
urally affected,  but  who  are  nearly  all  of  them 
picturesque,  and,  in  spite  of  their  poses,  quite  in 
earnest,  after  their  queer  fashion.  They  are  all 
prophets  and  seers  down  here;  they  wear  their 
bizarre  hair-cuts  and  unusual  clothes  with  a  cer- 
tain innocently  flaunting  air  which  rather  disarms 
you.  Their  poses  are  not  merely  poses;  they  are 
their  almost  childlike  way  of  showing  the  prosaic 
outer  world  how  different  they  are! 

Here  they  all  flock — whenever  they  have  the 
-t-  212  -»- 


RESTAURANTS,  AND  THE  MAGIC  DOOR 

price.  That  may  be  a  bit  beyond  them  sometimes, 
but  usually  there  is  someone  in  the  crowd  who 
is  "  flush,"  and  that  means  who  will  pay.  For 
the  Villagers  are  not  parsimonious;  they  stand 
in  no  danger  of  ever  making  themselves  rich  and 
thus  acquiring  place  in  the  accursed  class  called 
the  Philistines! 

It  is  beyond  question  that  the  French  have  a 
genius  for  hospitality.  It  must  be  rooted  in  their 
beautiful,  national  tact,  that  gracious  impulse 
combining  chivalry  to  women,  friendliness  to 
men  and  courtesy  to  all  which  is  so  characteristic 
of  "  the  world's  sweetheart "  France.  I  have 
never  seen  a  French  restaurant  where  the  most 
casual  visitor  was  not  made  personally  and  charm- 
ingly welcome,  and  I  have  never  seen  such  typi- 
cally French  restaurants  as  the  Lafayette  and  the 
Brevoort.  And  the  Villagers  feel  it  too.  From 
the  shabbiest  socialist  to  the  most  flagrantly 
painted  little  artist's  model,  they  drift  in  thank- 
fully to  that  atmosphere  of  gaiety  and  sympathy 
and  thoughtful  kindliness  which  is,  after  all,  just — 
the  air  of  France. 

Next  let  us  take  a  restaurant  of  quite  another 
type,  not  far  from  the  Brevoort — all  the  Village 
eating  places  are  close  together — walk  across  the 
square,  a  block  further,  and  you  are  there. 

It  is  not  many  years  since  Bohemia  ate  chiefly 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

in  the  side  streets,  at  restaurants  such  as  Enrico's, 
Baroni's — there  are  a  dozen  such  places.  They 
still  exist,  but  the  Village  is  dropping  away  from 
them.  They  are  very  good  and  very  cheap,  and 
the  tourist — that  is,  the  uptowner — thinks  he  is 
seeing  Bohemia  when  he  eats  in  them,  but  not 
many  of  them  remain  at  all  characteristic.  Ber- 
tolotti's  is  something  of  an  exception.  It  is  a 
restaurant  of  the  old  style,  a  survival  of  the 
days  when  all  Bohemian  restaurants  were  Italian. 
La  Signora  says  they  have  been  there,  just  there 
on  Third  Street,  for  twenty  years.  If  you  are  a 
newcomer  you  will  probably  eat  in  the  upstairs 
room,  in  cool  and  rather  remote  grandeur,  and 
the  pretty  daughter  with  the  wondrous  black  eyes 
will  serve  you  the  more  elaborate  of  the  most 
extraordinarily  named  dishes  on  the  menu.  But 
if,  by  long  experience,  you  know  what  is  pleasant 
and  comfortable  you  will  take  a  place  in  the 
basement  cafe.  At  the  clean,  bare  table,  in  the 
shadow  of  the  big,  bright,  many-bottled  bar,  you 
will  eat  your  Risotta  alia  Milanese,  your  coteletti 
di  Vitelle,  your  asparagi — it's  probably  the  only 
place  in  the  city  where  they  serve  asparagus 
with  grated  cheese — finally  your  zambaione, — a 
heavenly  sort  of  hot  "  flip,"  very  foamy  and  se- 
ductive and  strongly  flavoured  with  Marsarla 
wine. 

-*-  214  -+• 


RESTAURANTS,  AND  THE  MAGIC  DOOR 

If  you  stand  well  with  the  house  you  may  have 
the  honour  to  be  escorted  by  the  Signora  herself 
—handsome,  dignified,  genial,  with  a  veritable 
coronal  of  splendid  grey  hair — to  watch  the 
eternal  bowling  in  the  alley  back  of  the  restau- 
rant. I  have  watched  them  fascinated  for  long 
periods  and  I  have  never  learned  what  it  is  they 
are  trying  to  do  with  those  big  "  bowling  balls." 
They  have  no  ninepins,  so  they  are  not  trying  to 
make  a  ten-strike.  Apparently,  it  is  a  game 
however,  for  now  and  then  a  shout  of  triumph 
proclaims  that  someone  has  won.  He  orders  the 
drinks  and  they  go  at  it  again. 

"  But,  what  is  it?  "  I  asked  the  Signora. 

"  Eh — oh — just  a  Glocho  di  Bocca,"  she  re- 
turned vaguely,  "  a  game  of  bowls — how  should 
I  know?  " 

Beyond  the  bowling  alley  is  a  long,  narrow 
yard  with  bushes.  It  would  make  quite  a  charm- 
ing summer  garden  with  little  tables  for  after- 
dinner  coffee.  But  the  Signora  says  that  the 
Chiesa,  there  at  the  back  of  it,  objects.  The 
Chiesa,  I  think,  is  the  Judson  Memorial  Church 
on  Washington  Square.  Just  why  they  don't 
want  the  Signora  to  have  tables  in  her  own  back 
yard  is  not  clear.  She,  being  a  Latin,  shrugs 
her  shoulders  and  makes  no  comment.  Standing 
in  the  darkness,  there  is  a  real  freshness  in  the 
•*-  215  -t- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

air;  there  is  also  a  delicious,  gurgling  sound,  the 
music  of  summer  streams. 

"How  lovely!"  you  whisper.  "What  a  de- 
lightful, rippling  sound." 

"  Yet,  it  is  the  ice  plant  of  the  big  hotel,"  says 
La  Signora  sweetly. 

There  is,  at  Bertolotti's  one  of  the  queerest 
little  old  figures  in  all  that  part  of  the  world, 
the  bent  and  aged  Italian  known  universally  as 
Castagna  (Chestnuts),  because  of  the  interminable 
anecdotes  he  tells  over  and  over  again.  No  one 
knows  his  real  name,  not  even  the  Signer  or 
the  Signora.  Yet  he  has  worked  for  them  for 
years.  He  wants  no  wages — only  a  living  and 
a  home.  In  the  aforementioned  back  yard  he  has 
built  himself  a  little  house  about  the  size  of  a 
dog  kennel.  It  is  a  real  house,  and  like  nothing 
so  much  as  the  historic  residence  of  the  Three 
Bears.  It  has  a  window,  eaves,  weather-strips  and 
a  clothesline,  for  he  does  his  own  washing.  He 
trots  off  there  very  happily  when  his  light  work 
is  done,  and,  when  his  door  is  closed,  opens  it  for 
no  one.  That  scrap  of  a  building  is  Castagna 's 
castle.  One  evening  I  went  to  call  on  him,  but 
he  had  put  out  his  light.  In  the  gleam  that 
came  from  the  bowling  alley  behind  me,  some- 
thing showed  softly  red  and  green  and  white 
against  the  wooden  door.  I  put  out  my  hand  and 
•*-  216  -*- 


RESTAURANTS,  AND  THE  MAGIC  DOOR 

touched  that  world-famous  cross.  It  was  about 
six  inches  long,  and  only  of  paper,  but  it  was  the 
flag  of  Italy,  and  it  kept  watch  outside  the  Casa 
Castagna.  I  am  certain  that  he  would  not  sleep 
well  without  it. 

Probably  the  most  famous  Bohemian  restaurant 
in  the  quarter  is  the  Black  Cat.  It  is  not  really 
more  typical  than  the  others, — indeed  it  is  rather 
less  so, — but  it  is  extremely  striking,  and  most 
conspicuous.  There  is,  in  the  minds  of  the  hyper- 
critical, the  sneaking  suspicion  that  the  Black 
Cat  is  almost  too  good  to  be  true;  it  is  too 
obviously  and  theatrically  lurid  with  the  glow  of 
Montmartre;  it  is  Bohemianism  just  a  shade  too 
much  conventionalised.  Just  the  same,  it  is  fas- 
cinating. From  the  moment  you  pass  the  outer, 
polite  portals  and  intermediate  anterooms  and 
enter  the  big,  smoke-filled,  deafening  room  at  the 
back,  you  are  enormously  interested,  excellently 
entertained.  The  noise  is  the  thing  that  im- 
presses you  first.  In  most  Village  resorts  you 
find  quiet  the  order  of  the  day — or  rather  night. 
Even  "  Polly's,"  crowded  as  it  is,  is  not  noisy.  In 
the  Brevoort  there  is  a  steady,  low  rumble  of 
talk,  but  not  actual  noise.  At  the  Black  Cat  it 
is  one  continual  and  all-pervading  roar — a  joy- 
ous roar,  too;  these  people  are  having  a  simply 
gorgeous  time  and  don't  care  who  knows  it.  It 
-*-  217  -j- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

is  a  wonder  that  the  high-set  rafters  do  not  fall- 
that  the  lofty,  white -washed  walls  of  brick  do 
not  tremble,  and  that  the  little  black  cats  set  in  a 
rigid  conventional  design  around  the  whole  room 
do  not  come  to  life  in  horror,  and  fly  spitting  up 
the  short  stairway  and  out  of  the  door! 

When  you  go  to  the  Black  Cat  you  would  bet- 
ter check  what  prejudices  you  have  as  to  what  is 
formal  and  fitting,  and  leave  them  with  your  coat 
at  the  entrance.  Not  that  it  is  disreputable— 
Luigi  would  pale  with  the  shock  of  such  a 
thought!  It  is  just — Bohemian!  Everyone  does 
exactly  what  he  wishes  to  do.  Sometimes,  one 
person's  wishes  conflict  with  someone  else's,  and 
then  there  is  a  fight,  and  the  police  are  called, 
and  the  rest  of  the  patrons  have  a  beautiful  time 
watching  a  perfectly  good  and  unexpected  free 
show!  As  a  rule,  however,  this  determination 
on  the  part  of  each  one  to  do  what  he  wants  to 
has  no  violent  results.  An  incident  will  show 
something  of  the  entire  liberty  allowed  in  the 
Black  Cat.  A  man  came  in  with  two  girls,  and, 
seeing  a  jolly  stag  party  at  another  table,  decided 
to  join  them.  He  promptly  did  so,  with,  as  far 
as  could  be  seen,  no  word  of  excuse  to  his  femi- 
nine companions.  In  a  moment  two  young  men 
strolled  up  to  their  table  and  sat  down. 

"  Your  friend  asked  us  to  come  over  here  and 
-»-  218-*- 


RESTAURANTS,  AND  THE  MAGIC  DOOR 

take  his  place,"  explained  one  nonchalantly. 
"  You  don't  object,  ladies?  " 

The  girls  received  them  amiably.  Apparently 
no  one  thought  of  such  a  formality  as  names  or 
introductions.  The  original  host  stayed  away 
for  the  rest  of  the  evening,  but  the  four  new 
acquaintances  seemed  to  get  along  quite  satisfac- 
torily without  him. 

A  young  married  woman  from  uptown  came 
in  with  her  husband  and  two  other  men.  A  good- 
looking  lad,  much  flushed  and  a  little  unsteady, 
stopped  by  her  chair. 

"  Say,  k-kid,"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  disarming 
chuckle,  "  you're  the  prettiest  girl  here — and  you 
come  here  with  three  p-protectors!  Say,  it's  a 
shame! " 

He  lurched  cheerfully  upon  his  way  and  even 
the  slightly  conservative  husband  found  a  grudg- 
ing smile  wrung  out  of  him. 

There  is  a  pianist  at  the  Black  Cat — a  real 
pianist,  not  just  a  person  who  plays  the  piano. 
She  is  a  striking  figure  in  a  quaint,  tunic-like 
dress,  greying  hair  and  a  keen  face,  and  a  per- 
sonal friend  of  half  the  frequenters.  She  has  an 
uncanny  instinct  for  the  psychology  of  the  mo- 
ment. She  knows  just  when  "  Columbia "  will 
be  the  proper  thing  to  play,  and  when  the  crowd 
demands  the  newest  rag-time.  She  will  feel  an 
•*-  219  -*- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

atmospheric  change  as  unswervingly  as  any 
barometer,  and  switch  in  a  moment  from  "  Good- 
bye Girls,  Good-bye "  to  the  love  duet  from 
Faust.  She  can  play  Chopin  just  as  well  as  she 
can  play  Sousa,  and  she  will  tactfully  strike  up 
"  It's  Always  Fair  Weather "  when  she  sees  a 
crowd  of  young  fellows  sit  down  at  a  table; 
"  There'll  Be  a  Hot  Time  in  the  Old  Town  To- 
night"  to  welcome  a  lad  in  khaki;  and  the  very 
latest  fox  trot  for  the  party  of  girls  and  young 
men  from  uptown,  who  look  as  though  they  were 
dying  to  dance.  She  plays  the  "  Marseillaise  " 
for  Frenchmen,  and  "  Dixie  "  for  visiting  South- 
erners, and  "  Mississippi "  for  the  frequenters  of 
Manhattan  vaudeville  shows.  And,  then,  at  the 
right  moment,  her  skilled  fingers  will  drift  sud- 
denly into  something  different,  some  exquisite, 
inspired  melody — the  soul-child  of  some  high 
immortal — and  under  the  spell  the  noisy  crowd 
grows  still  for  a  moment.  For  even  at  the  Black 
Cat  they  have  not  forgotten  how  to  dream. 

Probably  the  Black  Cat  inspired  many  other 
Village  restaurants — the  Purple  Pup  for  in- 
stance. 

The  Purple  Pup  is  a  queer  little  place.  It  is 
in  a  most  exclusive  and  aristocratic  part  of  the 
Square — in  the  basement  of  one  of  the  really 
handsome  houses,  in  fact.  It  is,  so  far  as  is 

-*-  220  -t- 


RESTAURANTS,  AND  THE  MAGIC  DOOR 

visible  to  the  naked  eye,  quite  well  conducted, 
yet  there  is  something  mysterious  about  it. 
Doubtless  this  is  deliberately  stage-managed  and 
capitalised,  but  it  is  effectively  done.  It  is  an 
unexpected  sort  of  place.  One  evening  you  go 
there  and  find  it  in  full  blast;  the  piano  tinkling, 
many  cramped  couples  dancing  in  the  two  tiny 
rooms,  and  every  table  covered  with  tea  cups 
or  lemonade  glasses.  Another  night  you  may 
arrive  at  exactly  the  same  time  and  there  will 
be  only  candlelight  and  a  few  groups,  talking  in 
low  tones. 

Here,  as  in  all  parts  of  the  Village,  the  man  in 
the  rolling  collar,  and  the  girl  in  the  smock,  will 
be  markedly  in  evidence.  Yes;  they  really  do 
look  like  that.  Lots  of  the  girls  have  their  hair 
cut  short  too. 

And  "Polly's"! 

In  many  minds,  "  Polly's "  and  the  Village 
mean  one  and  the  same  thing.  Certainly  no  one 
could  intelligently  write  about  the  one  without 
due  and  logical  tribute  to  the  other.  Polly 
Holliday's  restaurant  (The  Greenwich  Village 
Inn  is  its  formal  name  in  the  telephone  book)  is 
not  incidental,  but  institutional.  It  is  fixed,  rep- 
resentative and  sacred,  like  Police  Headquarters, 
Trinity  Church  and  the  Stock  Exchange.  It  is 
indispensable  and  independent.  The  Village 

-t-  221  -J- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

could  not  get  along  without  it,  but  the  Village 
no  longer  talks  about  it  nor  advertises  it.  It  is, 
in  fact,  so  obviously  a  vital  part  of  Greenwich 
that  often  enough  a  Greenwicher,  asked  to  point 
out  hostelries  of  peculiar  interest,  will  forget  to 
mention  it. 

"How  about  c  Polly's'?"  you  remind  him. 

"  Oh — but  *  Polly's '!  "  he  protests  wonderingly. 
"  Why,  it  wouldn't  be  the  Village  at  all  without 
1  Polly's.'  It — why,  of  course,  I  never  thought 
anyone  had  to  be  told  about  '  Polly's '!  " 

His  attitude  will  be  as  disconcerted  as  though 
you  asked  him  whether  he  was  in  the  habit  of 
using  air  to  breathe, — or  was  accustomed  to  going 
to  bed  to  sleep. 

Polly  Holliday  used  to  have  her  restaurant 
under  the  Liberal  Club — where  the  Dutch  Oven 
is  now, — but  now  she  has  her  own  good-sized 
place  on  Fourth  Street,  and  it  remains,  through 
fluctuations  and  fads,  the  most  thoroughly  and 
consistently  popular  Village  eating  place  extant. 
It  is,  outwardly,  not  original  nor  superlatively 
striking  in  any  way.  It  is  a  clean,  bare  place 
with  paper  napkins  and  such  waits  between 
courses  as  are  unquestionably  conducive  to  the 
encouragement  of  philosophic,  idealistic,  anar- 
chistic and  esthetic  debates.  But  the  food  is 
excellent,  when  you  get  it,  and  the  atmosphere 

-e-  222  -t- 


RESTAURANTS,  AND  THE  MAGIC  DOOR 

both  friendly  and — let  us  admit  frankly — in- 
spiring. The  people  are  interesting;  they  discuss 
interesting  things.  You  are  comfortable,  and 
you  are  exhilarated.  You  see,  quickly  enough, 
why  the  Village  could  not  possibly  get  along 
without  its  inn ;  why  "  Polly's "  is  so  essential 
a  part  of  its  life  that  half  the  time  it  overlooks 
it.  Outsiders  always  know  about  "  Polly's."  But 
the  Villager? 

"  <  Polly's '?     But  of  course  l  Polly's.'  " 

There  it  is.  Of  course  "  Polly's."  "  Polly's  " 
is  Greenwich  Village  in  little;  it  is,  in  a  fashion, 
cosmic  and  symbolic. 

Under  the  Liberal  Club,  where  "  Polly's "  used 
to  be  located,  the  "  Dutch  Oven,"  with  its  ca- 
pacious fireplace  and  wholesome  meals,  now  holds 
sway.  The  prices  are  reasonable,  the  food  sub- 
stantial and  the  atmosphere  comfortable,  so  it  is 
a  real  haven  of  good  cheer  to  improvident  Vil- 
lagers. 

The  Village  Kitchen  on  Greenwich  Avenue  is 
another  place  of  the  same  sort.  And  Gallup's— 
almost  the  first  of  these  "  breakfast  and  lunch  " 
shops — is  another.  They  are  not  unlike  a  Childs 
restaurant,  but  with  the  rarefied  Village  air  added. 
You  eat  real  food  in  clean  surroundings,  as  you 
do  in  Childs',  but  you  do  it  to  an  accompani- 
ment that  is  better  than  music — a  sort  of  life- 
-*-  223  -t- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

song,  rather  stirring  and  quite  touching  in  its 
way — the  Song  of  the  Village.  How  can  people 
be  both  reckless  and  deeply  earnest?  But  the 
Villagers  are  both. 

One  of  the  oddest  sights  on  earth  is  a  typical 
"  Breakfast"  at  "  Polly's,"  the  "  Kitchen  "  or  the 
"  Dutch  Oven,"  after  one  of  the  masked  balls 
for  which  the  Village  has  recently  acquired  such 
a  passion.  After  you  have  been  up  all  night  in 
some  of  these  mad  masquerades — of  which  more 
anon — you  may  not,  by  Village  convention,  go 
home  to  bed.  You  must  go  to  breakfast  with  the 
rest  of  the  Villagers.  And  you  must  be  prepared 
to  face  the  cold,  grey  dawn  of  "  the  morning 
after  "  while  still  in  your  war  paint  and  draggled 
finery.  It  is  an  awful  ordeal.  But  "  it's  being 
done  in  the  Village  "! 

Quite  recently  a  new  sort  of  eating  place  has 
sprung  up  in  Greenwich  Village — of  so  original 
and  novel  a  character  that  we  must  investigate 
it  in  at  least  a  few  of  its  manifestations.  Speak- 
ing for  myself,  I  had  never  believed  that  such 
places  could  exist  within  sound  of  the  "  L  "  and 
a  stone's  throw  from  drug  stores  and  offices. 

But  see  what  you  think  of  them. 


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RESTAURANTS,  AND  THE  MAGIC  DOOR 


II 


"  I  can't  believe  that! "  said  Alice. 

"Can't  you?"  the  Queen  said  in  a  pitying  tone.  "Try 
again :  draw  a  long  breath  and  shut  your  eyes." 

Alice  laughed.  "  There's  no  use  trying,"  she  said.  "  One 
can't  believe  impossible  things." 

"  I  daresay  you  haven't  had  much  practice,"  said  the  Queen. 
"  When  I  was  your  age,  I  always  did  it  for  half-an-hour  a  day. 
Why,  sometimes  I've  believed  as  many  as  six  impossible  things 
before  breakfast." — "  Through  the  Looking  Glass." 

"  But  it  can't  be  this!  "  I  said.  "  You've  made 
a  mistake  in  the  number!" 

"  It  is  this,"  declared  my  guide  and  companion. 
'  This  is  where  Nanni  Bailey  has  her  tea  shop." 

"But  this  is — is — isn't  anything!" 

Indeed  the  number  to  which  my  friend  pointed 
seemed  to  indicate  the  entrance  to  a  sort  of  ware- 
house, if  it  indicated  anything  at  all.  On  peering 
through  the  dim  and  gloomy  doorway,  it  appeared 
instead  to  be  a  particularly  desolate-looking  cel- 
lar. There  were  old  barrels  and. boxes  about,  an 
expanse  of  general  dusty  mystery  and,  in  the  dingy 
distance,  a  flight  of  ladder-like  steps  leading  up- 
wards to  a  faint  light. 

;'  It's  one  of  Dickens'  impossible  stage  sets  come 
true!  "  I  exclaimed.  "  It  looks  as  though  it  might 
-*-  225  -*- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

be  a  burglars'  den  or  somebody's  back  yard,  but 
anyway,  it  isn't  a  restaurant!" 

"It  is  too!"  came  back  at  me  triumphantly. 
"  Look  at  that  sign!" 

By  the  faint  rays  of  a  street  light  on  nearby 
Sixth  Avenue,  I  saw  the  shabby  little  wooden 
sign,  "  The  Samovar."  This  extraordinary  place 
was  a  restaurant  after  all! 

We  entered  warily,  having  a  vague  expectation 
of  pickpockets  or  rats,  and  climbed  that  ladder 
— I  mean  staircase — to  what  was  purely  and 
simply  a  loft. 

But  such  a  loft!  Such  a  quaint,  delicious, 
simple,  picturesque  apotheosis  of  a  loft!  A  loft 
with  the  rough  bricks  whitewashed  and  the  heavy 
rafters  painted  red;  a  loft  with  big,  plain  tables 
and  a  bare  floor  and  an  only  slightly  partitioned- 
off  kitchenette  where  the  hungry  could  descry 
piles  of  sandwiches  and  many  coffee  cups.  And 
there  in  the  middle  of  the  loft  was  the  Samovar 
itself,  a  really  splendid  affair,  and  one  actually 
not  for  decorative  purposes  only,  but  for  use.  I 
had  always  thought  samovars  were  for  the  orna- 
mentation either  of  houses  or  foreign-atmosphere 
novels.  But  you  could  use  this  thing.  I  saw 
people  go  and  get  glasses-full  of  tea  out  of  it. 

Under  the  smoke-dimmed  lights  were  curious, 
eager,  interesting  faces:  a  pale  little  person  with 

•4-  226  -*- 


RESTAURANTS,  AND  THE  MAGIC  DOOR 

red  hair  I  recognised  instantly  as  an  actress  whom 
I  had  just  seen  at  the  Provincetown  Players — a 
Village  Theatrical  Company — in  a  tense  and  ter- 
ribly tragic  role.  Beyond  her  was  a  white-haired 
man  with  keen  eyes — a  distinguished  writer  and 
socialist.  A  shabby  poet  announced  to  the  sym- 
pathetic that  he  had  sold  something  after  two 
years  of  work.  Immediately  they  set  about  mak- 
ing a  real  fiesta  of  the  unusual  occasion.  Miss 
Bailey,  a  small,  round,  efficient  person  with  nice 
eyes  and  good  manners,  moved  about  among  her 
guests,  all  of  whom  she  seemed  to  know.  The 
best  cheese  sandwiches  in  New  York  went  round. 
A  girl  in  a  vampire  costume  of  grey — hooded  and 
with  long  trailing  sleeves — got  up  from  her  soli- 
tary place  in  the  corner.  She  seemed  to  be  wear- 
ing, beneath  the  theatrical  garment,  a  kimono 
and  bedroom  slippers.  Obviously  she  had  simply 
drifted  in  for  sandwiches  before  going  to  bed. 
She  vanished  down  the  ladder. 

An  hour  later,  we,  too,  climbed  down  the  lad- 
derish  stairs,  my  companion  and  I,  and  as  we 
came  out  into  the  fresh  quiet  of  Fourth  Street  at 
midnight,  I  had  a  really  odd  sensation.  I  felt 
as  though  I  had  been  reading  a  fascinating  and 
unusual  book,  and  had — suddenly  closed  it  for 
the  night. 

This  was  one  of  the  first  of  the  real  Village 
-«-  227  -»- 


eating  places  which  I  ever  knew.  Perhaps  that 
is  why  it  comes  first  to  my  memory  as  I  write. 
I  do  not  know  that  it  is  more  representative  or 
more  interesting  than  others.  But  it  was  worth 
going  back  to. 

Yet,  after  all,  it  isn't  the  food  and  drink,  nor 
yet  the  unusual  surroundings,  that  bring  you  back 
to  these  places.  It's  the — well,  one  has  to  use, 
once  in  a  while,  the  hard-worked  and  generally 
inappropriate  word  "  atmosphere."  Like  "  tem- 
perament "  and  "  individuality "  and  the  rest  of 
the  writer-folk's  old  reliables,  "  atmosphere "  is 
too  often  only  a  makeshift,  a  lazy  way  of  express- 
ing something  you  won't  take  the  trouble  to  de- 
fine more  expressively.  Dick  says  in  "  The  Light 
That  Failed  "  that  an  old  device  for  an  unskilful 
artist  is  to  stick  a  superfluous  bunch  of  flowers 
somewhere  in  a  picture  where  it  will  cover  up 
bad  drawing.  I'm  afraid  writers  are  apt  to  use 
stock  phrases  in  the  same  meretricious  fashion. 

But  this  is  a  fact  just  the  same.  Nearly  all  the 
Greenwich  Village  places  really  have  atmosphere. 
You  can  be  cynical  about  it,  or  frown  at  it,  or 
do  anything  you  like  about  it,  but  it's  there,  and 
it's  the  real  thing.  It's  an  absolute  essence  and 
ether  which  you  feel  intensely  and  breathe  neces- 
sarily, but  which  no  one  can  put  quite  definitely 
into  the  concrete  form  of  words.  I  have  heard  of 

-*-  228  -e- 


RESTAURANTS,  AND  THE  MAGIC  DOOR 

liquid  or  solidified  air,  but  that's  a  scientific  ex- 
periment, and  who  wants  to  try  scientific  experi- 
ments on  the  Village  which  we  all  love? 

"  But  such  an  amount  of  play-acting  and  pose!  " 
I  hear  someone  complain,  referring  to  the  Vil- 
lage with  contemptuous  irritation.  "  They  pre- 
tend to  be  seeking  after  truth  and  liberty  of 
thought,  and  that  sort  of  thing,  and  yet  they  are 
steeped  in  artificiality." 

Yes,  to  a  certain  extent  that  is  true — true  of  a 
portion  of  the  Village,  at  any  rate,  and  a  certain 
percentage  of  the  Villagers.  But  even  if  it  is 
true,  it  is  the  sort  of  truth  that  needs  only  a  bit  of 
understanding  to  make  us  tender  and  tolerant 
instead  of  scornful  and  hard.  My  dear  lady,  you 
who  complained  of  the  "  play-acting,"  and  you 
other  who,  agreeing  with  her,  see  in  the  whimsies 
and  pretenses  in  Our  Village  only  a  spectacle  of 
cheap  affectation  and  artifice,  have  you  lived  so 
long  and  yet  do  not  know  that  the  play-acting 
instinct  is  one  of  the  most  universal  of  all  in- 
stincts— the  very  first  developed,  and  the  very 
last,  I  truly  believe,  to  die  in  our  faded  bodies? 
From  the  moment  when  we  try  to  play  ball 
with  sunbeams  through  those  intermediate  years 
wherein  we  imagine  ourselves  everything  on 
earth  that  we  are  not,  down  to  those  last  days  of 
all,  when  we  live,  all  furtive  and  unsuspected,  a 
-*-  229  -*- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

secret  life  of  the  spirit — either  a  life  of  remem- 
brance or  a  life  of  imagination  visualising  what 
we  have  wanted  and  have  missed, — what  do  we 
do  but  pretend, — make  believe, — pose,  if  you  will? 
When  we  are  little  we  pretend  to  be  knights  and 
ladies,  pirates  and  fairy  princesses,  soldiers  and 
Red  Cross  nurses,  and  sailors  and  hunters  and 
explorers.  We  people  the  window  boxes  with 
elves  and  pixies  and  the  dark  corners  with  Red 
Indians  and  bears.  The  commonplace  world 
about  us  is  not  truly  commonplace,  since  our  fancy, 
still  fresh  from  eternity,  can  transform  three  dusty 
shrubs  into  an  enchanted  forest,  and  an  automo- 
bile into  the  most  deliciously  formidable  of  the 
Dragon  Family.  A  bit  later,  our  pretending  is 
done  more  cautiously.  We  do  not  confess  our 
shy  flights  of  imagination:  we  take  a  prosaic  out- 
ward pose,  and  try  not  to  advertise  the  fact  that 
our  geese  wear  (to  our  eyes)  swans'  plumage, 
and  that  our  individual  roles  are  (to  our  own 
view)  always  those  of  heroes  and  heroines.  No 
one  of  us  but  mentally  sees  himself  or  herself 
doing  something  which  is  as  impracticable  as 
cloud-riding.  No  one  of  us  but  dreams  of  the 
impossible  and  in  a  shamefaced,  almost  clandes- 
tine, fashion  pictures  it  and  lingers  over  it.  All 
make-believe,  you  see,  only  we  hate  to  admit  it! 
The  different  thing  about  Greenwich  is  that  there 

-*-  230  -*- 


RESTAURANTS,  AND  THE  MAGIC  DOOR 

they  do  admit  it,  quite  a  number  of  them.  They 
accept  the  pretending,  play-acting  spirit  as  a  per- 
fectly natural — no,  as  an  inevitable — part  of  life, 
and,  with  a  certain  whimsical  seriousness,  not  un- 
like that  of  real  children,  they  provide  for  it.  You 
know  children  can  make  believe,  know  that  it  is 
make  believe,  yet  enjoy  it  all  the  more  for  that. 
So  can  the  Villagers.  Hence,  places  like — let  us 
say,  as  an  example — "  The  Pirate's  Den." 

It  is  a  very  real  pirate's  den,  lighted  only  by 
candles.  A  coffin  casts  a  shadow,  and  there  is  a 
regulation  "  Jolly  Roger,"  a  black  flag  ornamented 
with  skull  and  crossbones.  Grim?  Surely,  but 
even  a  healthy-minded  child  will  play  at  grue- 
some and  ghoulish  games  once  in  a  while. 

There  is  a  Dead  Man's  Chest  too, — and  if  you 
open  it  you  will  find  a  ladder  leading  down  into 
mysterious  depths  unknown.  If  you  are  very 
adventurous  you  will  climb  down  and  bump  your 
head  against  the  cellar  ceiling  and  inspect  what 
is  going  to  be  a  subterranean  grotto  as  soon  as  it 
can  be  fitted  up.  You  climb  up  again  and  sit  in 
the  dim,  smoky  little  room  and  look  about  you. 
It  is  the  most  perfect  pirate's  den  you  can  imagine. 
On  the  walls  hang  huge  casks  and  kegs  and 
wine  bottles  in  their  straw  covers, — all  the  signs 
manual  of  past  and  future  orgies.  Yet  the 
"  Pirate's  Den  "  is  "  dry  "  —straw-dry,  brick-dry 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

— as  dry  as  the  Sahara.  If  you  want  a  "  drink  " 
the  well-mannered  "  cut-throat "  who  serves  you 
will  give  you  a  mighty  mug  of  ginger  ale  or 
sarsaparilla.  And  if  you  are  a  real  Villager  and 
can  still  play  at  being  a  real  pirate,  you  drink  it 
without  a  smile,  and  solemnly  consider  it  real 
red  wine  filched  at  the  edge  of  the  cutlass  from 
captured  merchantmen  on  the  high  seas.  On  the 
big,  dark  centre  table  is  carefully  drawn  the  map 
of  "  Treasure  Island." 

The  pirate  who  serves  you  (incidentally  he 
writes  poetry  and  helps  to  edit  a  magazine  among 
other  things)  apologises  for  the  lack  of  a  Steven- 
sonian  parrot. 

"  A  chap  we  know  is  going  to  bring  one  back 
from  the  South  Sea  Islands,"  he  declares  seri- 
ously. "  And  we  are  going  to  teach  it  to  say, 
'Pieces  of  eight!  Pieces  of  eight!' 

If,  while  you  are  at  the  "  Pirate's  Den  "  you 
care  to  climb  a  rickety,  but  enchanted  staircase 
outside  the  old  building  (it's  pre-Revolutionary, 
you  know)  you  will  come  to  the  "  Aladdin  Shop  " 
— where  coffee  and  Oriental  sweets  are  special- 
ties. It  is  a  riot  of  strange  and  beautiful  colour- 
vivid  and  Eastern  and  utterly  intoxicating.  A 
very  talented  and  picturesque  Villager  has  painted 
every  inch  of  it  himself,  including  the  mysterious- 
looking  Arabian  gentleman  in  brilliantly  hued 

-t-  232  -*- 


RESTAURANTS,  AND  THE  MAGIC  DOOR 

wood,  who  sits  cross-legged  luring  you  into  the 
little  place  of  magic.  The  wrought  iron  brackets 
on  the  wall  are  patches  of  vivid  tints;  the  cur- 
tains at  the  windows  are  colour-dissonances,  fas- 
cinating and  bizarre.  As  usual  there  is  candle- 
light. And,  as  usual,  there  is  the  same  delicious 
spirit  of  seriously  and  whole-heartedly  playing 
the  game.  While  you  are  there  you  are  in  the 
East.  If  it  isn't  the  East  to  you,  you  can  go  away 
— back  to  Philistia. 

And  speaking  of  candlelight.  I  went  into  the 
poets'  favourite  "  Will  o'  the  Wisp "  tea  shop 
once  and  found  the  gas-jet  lighted!  The  young 
girl  in  charge  jumped  up,  much  embarrassed,  and 
turned  it  out. 

"I'm  so  sorry!"  she  apologised.  "But  I 
wanted  to  see  just  a  moment,  and  lighted  it!  " 

I  peered  at  her  face  in  the  ghostly  candle- 
light. It  was  entirely  and  unmistakably  earnest. 

Just  the  same,  Mrs.  Browning's  warning  that 
"  colours  seen  by  candlelight  do  not  look  the  same 
by  day  "  is  not  truly  applicable  to  these  Village 
shrines.  Even  under  the  searching  beams  of  a 
slanting,  summer  afternoon  sun,  they  are  adorable. 
Go  and  see  if  you  don't  believe  this. 

Then  take  the  "  Mad  Hatter's."  The  entrance 
alone  is  a  monument  to  the  make-believe  capa- 
bilities of  the  Village.  Scrawled  on  the  stone 
+-233 -I- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

wall  beside  the  steps  that  lead  down  to  the  little 
basement  tea  room,  is  an  inscription  in  chalk. 
It  looks  like  anything  but  English.  But  if  you 
held  a  looking-glass  up  to  it  you  would  find  that 
it  is  "  Down  the  Rabbit  Hole  "  written  backward! 
Now,  if  you  know  your  "  Alice  "  as  well  as  you 
should,  you  will  recall  delightedly  her  dash  after 
the  White  Rabbit  which  brought  her  to  Wonder- 
land, and,  incidentally,  to  the  Mad  Tea  Party. 

You  go  in  to  the  little  room  where  Villagers 
are  drinking  tea,  and  the  proprietress  approaches 
to  take  your  order.  She  is  a  good-looking  young 
woman  dressed  in  a  bizarre  red  and  blue  effect, 
not  unlike  one  of  the  Queens,  but  she  prefers  to 
be  known  as  the  "  Dormouse " — not,  however, 
that  she  shows  the  slightest  tendency  to  fall  asleep. 

On  the  wall  is  scribbled,  "  *  There's  plenty  of 
room,'  said  Alice." 

The  people  around  you  seem  only  pleasantly 
mad,  not  dangerously  so.  There  is  a  girl  with  an 
enchanting  scrap  of  a  monkey;  there  is  a  youth 
with  a  manuscript  and  a  pile  of  cigarette  butts. 
The  great  thing  here  once  more  is  that  they  are 
taking  their  little  play  and  their  little  stage  with 
a  heavenly  seriousness,  all  of  them.  You  expect 
somebody  to  produce  a  set  of  flamingos  at  any 
moment  and  start  a  game  of  croquet  among  the 
tiny  tables. 

•4-234-* 


RESTAURANTS,  AND  THE  MAGIC  DOOR 

Not  all  of  the  Greenwich  restaurants  have 
definite  individual  characters  to  maintain  con- 
sistently. Sometimes  it  is  just  a  general  spirit  of 
picturesqueness,  of  adventure,  that  they  are  try- 
ing to  keep  up.  The  "  Mouse  Trap,"  except  for 
the  trap  hanging  outside  and  a  mouse  scrawled 
in  chalk  on  the  wall  of  the  entry,  carries  out  no 
particular  suggestion  either  of  traps  or  mice. 
But  take  a  look  at  the  proprietress  (Rita  they 
call  her),  with  her  gorgeous  Titian  hair  and  delft- 
blue  apron;  at  her  son  Sidney,  fair,  limp,  slim, 
English-voiced,  with  a  deft  way  of  pouring  after- 
dinner  coffee,  and  hair  the  colour  of  corn.  They 
are  obviously  play-acting  and  enjoying  it. 

Ask  Rita  her  nationality.  She  will  fix  you 
with  eyes  utterly  devoid  of  a  twinkle  and  answer: 
"I?  I  am  part  Scotch  terrier,  and  part  Spanish 
mongrel,  but  mostly  mermaid!  " 

Rita  goes  to  the  sideboard  to  cut  someone  a 
slice  of  good-looking  pie.  She  overhears  a  ref- 
erence to  the  "  Candlestick,"  a  little  eating  place 
chiefly  remarkable  for  its  vegetables  and  poetesses. 

"  If  they  eat  nothing  but  vegetables  no  wonder 
they  take  to  poetry,"  is  her  comment.  But  still 
she  does  not  smile.  If  you  giggle,  as  every  child 
knows,  you  spoil  the  game.  They  laugh  heartily 
enough  and  often  enough  down  in  the  Village, 
but  they  never  laugh  at  the  Village  itself, — not 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

because  they  take  it  so  reverentially,  but  because 
they  know  how  to 'make  believe  altogether  too 
well. 

Let  me  whisper  here  that  the  most  fascinating 
hour  in  the  "  Mouse  Trap  "  is  in  the  late  after- 
noon, when  no  one  is  there,  and  the  ebony  hand- 
maiden in  the  big  back  kitchen  is  taking  the  fat, 
delicious-smelling  cakes  from  the  oven.  Drop  in 
some  afternoon  and  sniff  the  fragrance  that  sug- 
gests your  childhood  and  "  sponge-cake  day." 
You  will  feel  that  it  is  a  trap  no  sane  mouse 
would  ever  think  of  leaving!  On  a  table  beside 
you  is  a  slate  with,  obviously,  the  day's  specials: 

"  Spice  cakes. 
Chocolate  cake. 
Strawberry  tarts  with  whipped  cream." 

And  still  as  you  peep  through  the  door  at  the 
back  you  see  more  and  still  more  goodies  coming 
hot  and  fresh  and  enticing  from  the  oven.  White 
cakes,  golden  cakes,  delicately  browned  pies,— 
if  you  are  dieting  by  any  chance  you  flee  tempta- 
tion and  leave  the  "  Mouse  Trap  "  behind  you. 

It  would  be  impossible  to  give  even  an  approxi- 
mately complete  inventory  of  the  representative 
places  of  the  Village.  I  have  had  to  content  my- 
self with  some  dozen  or  so  examples, — recorded 

-4-236-1- 


RESTAURANTS,  AND  THE  MAGIC  DOOR 

almost  haphazard,  for  the  most  part,  but  as  I 
believe,  more  or  less  typical,  take  them  all  in 
all,  of  the  Village  eating  place  in  its  varied  and 
rather  curious  manifestations. 

Then  there  is  a  charming  shop  presided  over 
by  a  pretty  girl  with  the  inevitable  smock  and 
braided  hair,  where  tea  is  served  in  order  to 
entice  you  to  buy  carved  and  painted  trifles. 

And  then  there  is,  or  was,  the  place  kept  by 
Polly's  brother,  which  was  heartlessly  raided  by 
the  police,  and  much  maligned,  not  to  say  libelled, 
by  the  newspapers. 

And  then  there  was  and  is  the  "  Hell  Hole." 
Its  ancient  distinction  used  to  be  that  it  was  one 
of  the  first  cheap  Bohemian  places  where  women 
could  smoke,  and  that  it  was  always  open.  When 
all  the  other  resorts  closed  for  the  night  you  re- 
paired to  the  "  Hell  Hole."  As  to  the  smoking, 
it  has  taken  a  good  while  for  New  York  to  allow 
its  Bohemian  women  this  privilege,  though  society 
leaders  have  enjoyed  it  for  ages.  We  all  know 
that  though  most  fashionable  hotels  permitted 
their  feminine  guests  to  smoke,  the  Haymarket  of 
dubious  memory  always  tabooed  the  custom  to  the 
bitter  end! 

The  "  Hell  Hole  "  has  always  stoutly  approved 
of  cigarettes,  so  all  honour  to  it!  And  many  a 
happy  small-hours  party  has  brought  up  there  to 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

top  off  the  night  in  peace  without  having  to  keep 
an  eye  on  the  clock. 

There  is  a  little  story  told  about  one  of  these 
restaurants  of  which  I  have  been  writing — never 
mind  which.  A  visiting  Englishman  on  his  way 
from  his  boat  to  his  hotel  dropped  in  at  a  certain 
place  for  a  drink.  He  found  the  company  con- 
genial and  drifted  into  a  little  game  which 
further  interested  him.  It  was  a  perfectly 
straight  game,  and  he  was  a  perfectly  good  sport. 
He  stayed  there  two  weeks.  No:  I  shall  not  state 
what  the  place  was.  But  I  think  the  story  is  true. 

Personally,  I  don't  blame  the  Englishman. 
Even  shorn  of  the  charm  of  a  game  of  chance, 
there  is  many  a  place  in  Greenwich  Village 
which  might  easily  capture  a  susceptible  tempera- 
ment— not  merely  for  weeks,  but  for  years! 

The  last  of  the  tea  shops  is  the  "  Wigwam,"  in 
which,  take  note,  it  is  the  Indian  game  that  is 
played.  Its  avowed  aim  is  "  Tea  and  Dancing," 
and  it  is  exceedingly  proud  of  its  floor.  It  lives 
in  the  second  story  of  what,  for  over  fifty  years, 
has  been  the  old  Sheridan  Square  Tavern,  and  its 
proprietors  are  the  Mosses, — poet,  editor  and  in- 
cidental "pirate"  on  one  side  of  the  house;  and 
designer  of  enchanting  "  art  clothes "  on  the 
other.  Lew  Kirby  Parrish,  no  less,  has  made 
the  decorations,  and  he  told  me  that  the  walls 

-*-  238  -*- 


RESTAURANTS,  AND  THE  MAGIC  DOOR 

were  grey  with  Indian  decorations,  and  the  ceil- 
ing a  "  live  colour."  I  discovered  that  that  meant 
a  vivid,  happy  orange. 

The  spirit  of  the  play  is  always  kept  in  the 
Village.  Let  us  take  the  opening  night  of  the 
"  Wigwam  "  as  a  case  in  point. 

The  Indian  note  is  supreme.  It  is  not  only  the 
splendid  line  drawings  of  Indian  chiefs,  form- 
ing the  panels  of  the  room — those  mysterious  and 
impressive  shades  created  by  the  imagination  of 
Lew  Parrish — it  is  the  general  mood.  Only 
candles  are  burning, — big,  fat  candles,  giving,  in 
the  aggregate,  a  magical  radiance. 

The  victrola  at  the  end  of  the  room  begins  to 
play  a  curious  Indian  air  with  an  uneven,  fas- 
cinating, syncopated  rhythm.  A  graceful  girl  in 
Indian  dress  glides  in  and  places  a  single  candle 
on  the  floor,  squatting  before  it  in  a  circle  of 
dim,  yellow  light. 

She  lifts  her  dark  head  with  its  heavy  band 
about  the  brows  and  shades  her  eyes  with  her 
hand.  You  see  remote  places,  far,  pale  horizons, 
desert  regions  of  sand.  There  are  empty  skies 
overhead,  instead  of  the  "  live-colour "  ceiling. 
With  an  agile  movement,  she  rises  and  begins  to 
dance  about  the  candle,  and  you  know  that  to 
her  it  is  a  little  campfire;  it  is  that  to  you,  too, 
for  the  moment.  Something  like  the  west  wind 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

blows  her  fringed  dress;  there  is  a  dream  as  old 
as  life  in  her  eyes. 

Faster  and  faster  she  dances  about  the  candle, 
until  at  last  she  sinks  beside  it  and  with  a  strange 
sure  gesture — puts  it  out. 

Silence  and  the  dark.  The  prairie  fades.  .  .  . 
The  little  dark-wood  tables  with  their  flowers 
and  candles  begin  to  glow  again;  the  next  musi- 
cal number  is  a  popular  one  stepl  .  .  . 


240 


Villagers 


CHAPTER  VIII 

Villagers 

Although  the  serious  affairs  of  life  are  met  as  conscientiously 
by  the  man  or  woman  who  has  the  real  spirit  of  the  Village, 
nevertheless  each  of  them  assuredly  shows  less  of  that  sordid- 
ness  and  mad  desire  for  money  so  prevalent  throughout  the 
land.  .  .  . 

The  real  villager's  life  is  better  balanced.  He  produces 
written  words  of  value,  or  material  objects  that  offer  utility 
and  delight.  He  sings  his  songs.  He  has  a  good  time. — From 
the  Ink  Pot  (a  Greenwich  Village  paper). 

QUOTED  the  above  to  a  practical 
friend  and  he  countered  by  quoting 
Dickens'  delightful  fraud,  "  Harold 
Skimpole  ": 

"  This  is  where  the  bird  lives  and  sings!  They 
pluck  his  feathers  now  and  then,  and  clip  his 
wings,  but  he  sings,  he  sings!  .  .  .  Not  an  am- 
bitious note,  but  still  he  sings!" 

And  my  friend  proceeded  heartlessly:  "  '  Skim- 
pole '  would  have  made  a  perfect  Villager!" 

It  is  hard  to  answer  cold  prose  when  your  argu- 
ments are  those  of  warm  poetry.  Not  that  prose 
4-143-+ 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

has  power  to  conquer  poetry,  but  that  the  lan- 
guages are  so  hopelessly  dissimilar.  They  need 
an  interpreter  and  the  post  is  not  a  sinecure. 

I  want  to  try  to  throw  a  few  dim  sidelights  on 
these  Villagers  whom  I  love  and  whom  I  know 
to  be  as  alien  to  the  average  metropolitan  con- 
sciousness and  perception  as  though  they  were 
aboriginal  representatives  of  interior  and  unex- 
plored China.  They  are  perhaps  chiefly  strange 
because  of  their  ridiculous  and  lovely  simplicity. 

The  artistic  instinct,  or  impulse,  is  not  par- 
ticularly rare.  Many  persons  have  a  real  love 
for  beautiful  things,  even  a  real  aptitude  for  de- 
signing or  reproducing  them.  The  creative  in- 
stinct is  something  vastly  different.  Creative 
artists, — great  painters  or  sculptors,  great  illus- 
trators, and  wizards  in  pencil  and  pen  and  char- 
coal effects, — must  be  both  born  and  made;  and 
there  are,  the  gods  know,  few  enough  of  them, 
all  told!  Until  comparatively  recent  times,  every- 
one gifted  with  the  blessing  of  an  artistic  sense 
turned  it  into  a  curse  by  trying  to  paint,  draw  or 
model,  while  the  world  yawned,  laughed,  turned 
away  in  disgust;  and  the  real  artists  flung  up  their 
hands  to  heaven  and  cried:  "What  next?" 

But  lately, — in  many  places,  but  preeminently 
in  Greenwich  Village, — these  folk  who  love 
art,  but  can't  achieve  great  art  expression,  have 


VILLAGERS 

evolved  a  new  sort  of  art  life.  They  are  de- 
veloping the  embryo  of  what  was  the  arts-and- 
crafts  idea  into  a  really  fine,  useful  and  satisfy- 
ing art  form.  They  have  left  mission  furniture 
and  Morris  designs  behind.  They  are  making 
their  own  models,  and  making  them  well.  They 
are  turning  their  restless,  beauty-loving  energies 
into  sound,  constructive  channels.  The  girl  who 
otherwise  might  have  painted  atrocious  pictures 
is,  in  the  Village,  decorating  delightful-looking 
boxes  and  jars,  or  hammering  metals  into  quaint, 
original  shapes  that  embody  her  own  fleeting 
fancies.  The  man  who  wanted  to  draw  but  could 
never  get  his  perspective  right  is  carving  wood — 
a  work  where  perspective  is  superfluous — and 
achieving  pleasure  for  others,  and  comfort  and  a 
livelihood  for  himself,  at  one  and  the  same 
time. 

I  know  of  nothing  which  is  so  typical  or  so 
significant  in  all  the  Village  as  this  new  urge 
toward  good  craftsmanship,  elementary  poetic 
design, — the  fundamentals  of  a  utilitarian,  beau- 
tiful and  pervading  art  life  apart  from  clay  or 
canvas. 

The  capitol  of  the  Village  shifts  a  bit  from 
time  to  time,  as  befits  so  flexible,  so  fluid  a  com- 
munity. Just  at  the  present  writing,  it  is  at 
Sheridan  Square  that  you  will  find  it  most  colour- 
4-245-1- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

fully  and  picturesquely  represented.  Tomorrow, 
no  man  may  be  able  to  say  whence  it  has  flitted. 

You  will  find  much  golden  sunshine  in  Sheri- 
dan Square — not  the  approved  atmosphere  of 
Bohemia,  yet  the  real  thing  nevertheless.  It  is  a 
broad,  clean,  brazen  sort  of  sunshine — a  sunshine 
that  should  say,  "See  me  work!  See  me  shine! 
See  me  show  up  the  least  last  ugliness  or  small- 
ness  or  humbleness,  and  glorify  it  to  something 
Village-like  and  picturesque!" 

When  you  leave  the  sunny  square,  you  will 
enter  the  oddest  little  court  in  all  New  York; 
it  has  not  to  my  knowledge  any  name,  but  it  is 
the  general  address  of  enough  tea  shops  and 
studios  and  Village  haunts  to  stock  an  entire 
neighbourhood.  The  buildings  are  old — old,  and, 
of  course,  of  wood.  These  artist  folk  have  meta- 
morphosed the  shabby  and  dilapidated  structures 
into  charming  places. 

Following  the  sign  of  deep  blue  with  yellow 
letters  which  indicates  that  this  is  the  place  where 
the  Hand-Painted  Wooden  Toys  are  made,  you 
must  climb  in  the  sunshine  up  the  outside  stair- 
case, which  looks  as  though  it  had  been  put  up  for 
scaffolding  purposes  and  then  forgotten.  Paus- 
ing on  the  rickety  stairway  and  looking  out  be- 
yond the  crazy  little  court  and  over  the  drowsy 
Square,  you  will  have  a  great  deal  of  difficulty 

-*-  246  -»- 


PATCHIN  PLACE 


One  of  the  strange  little  "lost  courts"  given  over  to 
the  Villagers  and  their  nnrsnii-s 


VILLAGERS 

in  believing  that  you  left  your  cable  car  about 
a  minute  and  a  half  before.  Pass  on  up  the 
stairs.  You  may  nearly  fall  over  the  black-and- 
white  feline  which  belongs  to  no  one  in  any  of 
the  buildings,  but  which  haunts  them  all  like  an 
unquiet  ghost,  and  which  is  known  by  everyone  as 
the  Crazy  Cat;  so  to  the  door  of  the  studio- 
workshop  where  the  toys  are  made. 

And  have  you  ever  seen  anything  quite  like  that 
workshop? 

A  little  light  studio  full  of  colour  and  the  smell 
of  paint.  On  one  side  blue-green  boxes  stacked 
on  shelves;  on  the  other  finished  sample  toys  not 
ready  to  be  boxed.  Shallow  dishes  of  orange 
and  emerald  green  and  bright  pink  and  primrose 
and  black  and  vivid  blue. 

"  Yes,"  says  the  girl  who  is  working  there — 
she  is  fair  and  wears  a  pale-green  frock  and  a 
black  work-apron, — "  I  do  this  part.  Mr.  Dicker- 
man,  the  artist,  makes  the  pictures  or  designs,  then 
we  have  them  turned  out  by  the  mill.  See  " 
she  shows  queer  shaped  pieces  of  wood  that  sug- 
gest nothing  to  the  casual  observer — "Then  the 
rest  is  done  here! " 

The  room  is  full  of  all  manner  of  curious  and 

charming  playthings.    Here  is  a  real  pirate's  chest 

for   your    treasures — the    young    workwoman    is 

just  painting  the  yellow  nails  on  it — and  here  is 

-z-247-*- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

a  fierce-looking  pirate  with  a  cutlass  for  a  book- 
shelf end;  here  is  a  futurist  coat-hanger — a  cubist- 
faced  burglar  with  a  jaw  and  the  peremptory 
legend:  "Give  me  your  hat,  scarf  and  coat!" 
Here  is  a  neatly  capped  little  waiting  maid 
whose  arms  are  constructed  for  flower  holders; 
here  are  delightful  watering-pots,  exquisitely 
painted;  wonderful  cake  covers,  powder-boxes, 
blotters,  brackets; — every  single  thing  a  little  gem 
of  clever  design  and  individual  workmanship.  It 
is  more  fascinating  than  Toyland  or  Santa  Claus' 
shop.  These  "  rocking  toys "  are  particularly 
fascinating:  the  dreadnought  that  careens  at 
perilous  angles,  and  the  kicking  mule  which 
knocks  its  driver  over  as  often  as  you  like  to 
make  it.  Shelves  on  shelves  of  these  wonder- 
things  complete,  and  a  whole  great  table  laden 
with  them  in  half-finished  forms.  Some  of  the 
little  wooden  figures  are  set  in  a  long  rack  to 
dry,  for  after  the  shellac  has  hardened  each  colour 
is  put  on  and  allowed  to  dry  thoroughly  before 
applying  the  next.  The  flesh-coloured  enamel 
goes  on  first,  then  the  other  lighter  shades,  leaving 
the  darker  for  the  last,  and  the  inevitable  touches 
of  black  to  finish  off  with. 

"This  way,"  says  the  girl  in  the  black  apron 
(which  is  really  a  smock),  taking  up  a  squat  but 
adorable  little  wooden  figure  which  is  already 

-t-  248  -*- 


VILLAGERS 

coloured  all  over,  but  has  a  curiously  unfinished 
aspect  nevertheless.  She  fills  a  tiny  brush  with 
glittering,  black  enamel  and  begins  to  apply  it 
in  dots  and  lines.  "  This  long  dab  is  supposed 
to  be  his  gun.  These  two  little  squares  of  black 
make  his  belt.  One  line  for  his  trousers, — now 
he's  done.  He's  for  a  blotter." 

The  little  soldier  has  now  taken  on  character 
and  soldidity  as  though  by  magic.  He  grins  at 
us,  very  martial  and  smart  indeed,  as  he  is  stood 
in  the  rack  for  the  enamel  to  harden. 

No  one  who  has  ever  been  to  the  workroom  of 
one  of  those  art  shops  will  ever  forget  it.  Per- 
sonally I  found  it  more  enchanting  than  any  regu- 
lar studio  I  ever  visited.  There  was  quite  real 
art  there.  Remember,  those  designs  show  no 
mean  order  of  genius  and  imagination,  and  the 
more  mechanical  work  is  beautifully  done  and  is 
constantly  given  a  little  individual,  quaint  twist 
which  stamps  the  toys  as  personal  works  of  art. 
And  the  whole  picture, — I  wish  I  could  paint  it! 
The  low-ceilinged  room,  set  high  up  above  the 
little  court;  the  sunshine  and  the  golden  square 
outside;  the  girl  in  the  black  smock  and  the  huge 
table  covered  with  pots  and  saucers  and  jars  of 
every  shape  and  size;  and  the  vivid  splashes  of 
colour  in  the  bright  afternoon  light — scarlet  and 
violet  and  yellow  and  indigo  and  red-brown. 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

And  the  wall  full  of  strange  and  brilliant  little 
figures  grinning,  scowling  and  staring  down  like 
so  many  goblins! 

Just  as  you  go  out  of  the  studio  your  eye  can 
scarcely  fail  to  fall  upon  one  particular  wooden 
hanger  to  be  screwed  on  a  door.  If  you  know 
the  "  Rose  and  the  Ring  "  by  heart,  as  you  should, 
it  will  give  you  quite  a  shock.  It  is  the  image 
of  the  Doorknocker  into  which  the  Fairy  Black- 
stick  changed  the  wicked  porter  Gniffanuff!  It 
is  indeed! 

You  know,  if  all  these  toys  should  come  to  life 
some  moonlit  night  they  would  make  quite  a 
formidable  array!  Imagine  the  pirates  and  the 
kicking  mules  and  the  cubist  burglars  all  running 
wild  together!  And  there  is  something  uncanny 
about  them  and  their  expressions  that  makes  one 
suspect  that  such  an  event  is  more  than  half 
likely. 

Even  the  advertisements  for  such  a  shop  could 
not  be  commonplace.  The  artist  in  charge  pro- 
claims that:  "Pirates  are  his  specialty,  and  that 
he  will  gladly  furnish  estimates  on  anything  from 
the  services  of  a  Pirate  Crew  to  a  Treasure  Island 
or  a  Pirate  Ship." 

On  Washington  Square  is  another  sort  of  work- 
shop,— a  place  where  jewelry  is  made  by  hand. 
The  girl  who  does  this  work  draws  her  own 

-*-  250  -»- 


VILLAGERS 

designs  and  executes  them,  and  the  results  are  in- 
finitely quainter  and  more  beautiful  than  the 
things  to  be  bought  at  jewelry  shops.  She  buys 
her  copper  and  silver  and  the  little  gold  she  uses 
in  bulk;  her  jewels — semi-precious  stones  for 
the  most  part — come  from  all  over  the  world. 
In  her  cool,  airy  workroom  with  the  green  trees 
of  the  big  Square  outside,  this  little  woman  heats 
and  bends  and  bores  her  metals  and  shines  her 
stones  in  their  quaint  settings,  with  a  rapt  absorp- 
tion that  is  balanced  by  her  steady  skill.  It  is  no 
light  or  easy  work,  this  making  of  hand-made 
jewelry,  and  it  requires  no  inconsiderable  gift  of 
delicate  fancy  and  artistic  judgment.  This  girl 
is  an  artist,  not  the  less  so  because  she  makes  her 
flowers  and  dragons  and  symbolic  figures  out  of 
metal  instead  of  canvas  and  paint;  not  the  less 
so  because  her  colours  do  not  come  in  tubes  but 
imprisoned  in  the  rare,  exotic  tints  of  shimmer- 
ing gems. 

Here  is  a  ring  of  slightly  dulled  silver — the 
design  is  of  a  water  lily,  fragile  and  delicate. 
In  the  heart  of  it  lies,  like  a  dewdrop,  a  pale- 
green  jewel  called  peridot.  Here  is  the  soft,  rich 
blue  of  lapis  lazuli — here  the  keener  azure  of 
turquoise  matrix.  Here  is  a  Mexican  opal,  full 
of  fire,  almost  blood-red,  glowing  feverishly  from 
its  burnished-copper  setting.  What  a  terrible, 
-»-  251  -*- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

yet  beautiful  ornament!  One  would  be,  I 
imagine,  under  a  sort  of  fierce  and  splendid  spell 
while  wearing  it.  Here,  cool  and  pale  and  pure 
as  a  moonbeam,  is  a  little  water  opal, — set  in 
silver  of  course.  Here  is  an  "  abalone  blister," 
iridescent  like  mother-of-pearl,  carrying  in  it 
something  of  "  the  shade  and  the  shine  of  the 
sea  "  from  which  the  mother-shell  originally  came. 
Here  is  matrix  opal,  and  here  are  numbers  of 
strange-hued,  crystalline  gems  with  names  all 
ending  in  "  ite."  To  model  with  metal  for  clay 
—to  paint  with  jewels  for  colour!  Does  it 
not  sound  like  very  real  and  very  fascinating 
art? 

These  are  passing  glimpses  of  but  two  of  the 
art  industries  of  the  Village.  There  are  many 
others — enough  to  fill  a  book  all  by  themselves. 
There  are  the  Villagers  who  hammer  brass,  and 
those  who  carve  wood;  who  make  exquisite  lace, 
who  make  furniture  of  quaint  and  original  design. 
There  are  the  designers  and  decorators,  whose 
brains  are  full  of  graceful  images  and  whose 
fingers  are  quick  and  facile  to  carry  them  out. 
There  are,  in  fact,  numbers  on  numbers  of  en- 
thusiastic young  people — they  are  nearly  all  of 
them  young — who  from  sunrise  to  sunset  spend 
their  lives  in  adding  to  the  sum  of  beauty  that 
there  is  on  earth. 

-*-  252  -*- 


VILLAGERS 

The  making  of  box  furniture,  for  instance, 
sounds  commonplace  enough,  but  it  is  really  fas- 
cinating. There  are  places  in  the  Village, — 
notably  one  on  Greenwich  Avenue, — where  these 
clever  craftsmen  make  wonderful  things  from 
cubic  forms  of  wood,  from  boxes  and  sticks  and 
laths  and  blocks.  They  can  make  anything 
from  a  desk  to  a  tall  candlestick,  and,  softly 
coloured,  the  square,  wooden  objects  make  a 
highly  decorative  effect.  It  is  a  simple  art  but 
a  striking  one,  and  the  aesthetic  sense,  the  instinct 
for  balance  and  proportion  and  ultimate  beauty 
of  line  and  composition,  has  a  splendid 
outlet. 

There  is,  too,  the  trade  of  the  designer  of  gar- 
ments: the  word  is  advisedly  substituted  for 
dresses.  The  real  designer  plans  and  executes 
pictures,  mood-expressions,  character  settings. 
She  dreams  herself  into  the  personalities  of  her 
clients,  also  the  necessities  and  the  limitations! 
Do  you  think  all  the  artistic  costume-creating 
is  done  in  the  Rue  de  la  Paix?  Try  the 
Village! 

And  the  florists!  The  flower  shops  of  the 
Village  are  truly  lovely,  one  in  particular,  the 
Peculiar  Flower  Shop,  which  does  not  look  at  all 
like  a  shop  but  like  the  corner  of  a  country 
garden.  The  Village  loves  flowers  and  under- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

stands  them.  Every  Villager  who  can,  grows 
them.  Believe  me,  you  know  nothing  about 
flowers  in  an  intimate  sense  until  you  have 
talked  with  a  flower-loving  Villager  1 

Think  of  it — you  outsiders  who  imagine  that 
you  are  exhibiting  a  fine,  artistic  tendency  by 
going  to  an  occasional  exhibition,  and  in  knowing 
what  colours  can  discreetly  be  worn  together! 
Here  is  a  small  army  of  vigourous  idealists  who 
live,  breathe  and  create  beauty;  whose  happy, 
hard-working  lives  are  filled  with  the  exhilarating 
wine  of  art  and  artistic  expression;  who,  when 
night  comes,  never  turn  the  keys  of  their  work- 
shops without  the  knowledge  that  they  have  made 
one  more  beautiful  thing  since  dawn,  one  more 
concrete  materialisation  of  the  art-dream  in  man, 
one  more  new  creation  to  help  to  furnish  pleasure 
for  a  beauty-loving  world! 

There  is  something  about  those  new  forms  of 
art  work  which  recalls  the  richer  and  more 
leisurely  past,  when  good  artisans  were  scarcely 
less  revered  than  great  artists;  when  men  toiled 
half  a  lifetime  to  fashion  one  or  two  perfect 
things;  when  even  the  commonest  utilitarian 
articles  were  expected  to  be  beautiful  and  were 
made  so  by  the  applied  genius  of  a  race  of  work- 
ing artists.  It  suggests  other  lands  too — the  East 
where  you  will  hardly  ever  see  an  ugly  object, 

4-254-+ 


VILLAGERS 

and  where  everything  from  a  pitcher  to  a  rug 
is  a  thing  of  loveliness;  the  South  where  true 
grace  of  line  and  colour  is  the  rule  rather  than 
the  exception  in  the  homeliest  household  utensils. 
Primitive  peoples  have  always  stayed  close  to 
beauty;  it  is  odd  that  it  has  always  remained  for 
civilisation  to  suggest  to  man  that  if  a  thing  is 
useful  it  need  not  necessarily  be  beautiful.  In  a 
sense,  then,  our  Villagers  have  returned  to  a 
simpler,  purer  and  surer  standard.  In  shutting 
out  the  rest  of  Philistia  they  have  also  succeeded 
in  shutting  out  Philistia's  inconceivable  ugliness. 
So  the  gods  give  them  joy — the  gods  give  them 
joy! 

Probably  no  one  region  on  earth  has  been  more 
misrepresented  and  miswritten-up  than  the  Vil- 
lage. Its  eccentricities,  harmless  or  otherwise, 
are  sufficiently  conspicuous  to  furnish  targets  both 
for  the  unscrupulous  fiction-monger  and  the  pro- 
fessional humourist.  Sometimes  when  the  fun  is 
clever  enough  and  true  enough  no  one  minds,  the 
Village  least  of  all;  humour  is  their  strong  point. 
But  they  are  quite  subtle  souls  with  all  their  child- 
like peculiarities;  there  is,  in  their  acceptance  of 
ridicule,  a  shrewd  undercurrent  suggestive  of  the 
"Virginian's"  now  classic  warning:  "When  you 
call  me  that,  smile!"  Hence  a  novel  written 
not  long  ago  and  purporting  to  be  a  mirror  of 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

the  Village — Village  life  and  Village  ideals,  or 
lack  of  them — had  a  peculiar  result  on  the  real 
Village.  They  knew  it  to  be  untrue — those  few 
who  read  it,  that  is — but  they  scorned  to  notice  it. 
They  resented  it,  but  to  an  astonishing  extent 
they  ignored  it.  The  title  of  it  got  to  mean  very 
little  to  them  save  a  general  term  of  cheap  and 
unmerited  opprobrium,  like  some  insulting  epi- 
thet in  a  foreign  language  which  one  knows  one 
would  dislike  if  one  could  understand  it.  It  is 
neccessary  to  grasp  these  first  simple  facts  to 
appreciated  the  following  episode: 

A  certain  young  Villager — I  shall  not  give  his 
name,  but  he  is  an  artist  of  growing  and  striking 
reputation,  dark-eyed  and  rather  attractive  look- 
ing— burst  into  a  friend's  studio  pale  with  anger: 

"  See  here,  have  you  a  copy  of  c  The  Truf- 
flers'?" 

"Not  guilty,"  swore  the  surprised  friend. 
"  Why  on  earth  do  you  want " 

But  the  young  artist  had  dashed  forth  again, 
hot  upon  his  quest.  A  few  houses  down  the  street, 
he  made  another  spectacular  entrance  with  the 
same  cry; — at  another  and  still  another.  One 
friend  frankly  confessed  he  had  never  heard  of 
the  book,  another  expressed  indignation  that  he 
should  be  suspected  of  owning  a  copy.  But  not 
until  the  temperamental,  brown-eyed  artist  had 

-*-  256  -*- 


VILLAGERS 

visited  several  acquaintances  was  he  able  to  get 
what  he  wanted. 

When  the  long-sought  volume  was  in  his  grasp, 
he  heaved  a  sigh  of  something  more  emphatic 
than  relief. 

"  How  much  did  you  pay  for  this  thing?  "  he 
demanded. 

"  I  didn't.     I  borrowed  it." 

"  Oh—  See  here.  Can't  you  say  you  lost 
it?" 

"  I  suppose  so,  if  you  want  it  as  much  as  all 
that." 

The  young  artist  sat  down  and  began  seriously 
to  tear  the  book  to  pieces. 

"Well,  for  the  love  of  Mike!"  cried  the 
friend.  "  Do  you  hate  it  like  that?  " 

"  I  never  read  more  than  three  pages  of  it," 
said  the  artist,  steadily  tearing,  "  but  a  slumming 
creature,  a  girl  from  uptown  came  into  the 
'  Pirate's  Den '  yesterday  where  I  was  sitting, 
and,  after  staring  at  me  fascinatedly  for  five 
minutes,  leaned  over  to  me  and  murmured  breath- 
lessly: 

"'Oh,  tell  me,  aren't  you  a  Truffler? "  I 
couldn't  wring  her  neck,  and  so " 

Another  handful  of  torn  pages  fluttered  from 
his  hand. 

Of  course,  there  are  always  the  faddists  and 
-j-  257  -j- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

theorists,  who  take  their  ideals  as  hard  as  mumps 
or  measles.  Because  the  Village  is  so  kind  to 
new  ideas,  these  flourish  there  for  a  time. 

Here  is  a  little  tale  told  about  a  certain  talented 
and  charming  lady  who  had  a  very  complete  set 
of  theories  and  wished  to  try  them  out  on  Green- 
wich. One  of  her  pet  theories  was  that  The 
People  were  naturally  aesthetic;  that  The  People's 
own  untutored  instinct  would  always  unerringly 
select  the  best;  that  it  was  an  insult  to  the  noble 
idealism  of  The  People  to  try  to  educate  them; 
they  were,  so  to  speak,  born  with  an  education, 
ready-made,  automatic,  in  sound  working  order 
from  the  beginning.  Now,  anyone  almost  may 
have  theories,  but  if  they  are  wise  souls  they 
won't  try  to  apply  them.  If  they  have  never 
been  practically  tested  they  can't  be  proved  fal- 
lacious and  thus  may  be  treasured  and  loved  and 
petted  indefinitely,  to  the  comfort  of  the  individ- 
ual and  the  edification  of  the  multitude.  But  this 
fair  idealist  would  not  let  well  enough  alone. 
She  wanted  to  put  her  favourite  theory  to  the 
acid  test.  So  this  is  what  she  did. 

In  the  one-time  roadhouse  on  Washington 
Square  was  a  saloon  the  name  of  which  suggested 
an  embryotic  impulse  toward  poetry;  or  perhaps 
she  picked  that  particular  "  pub "  at  random. 
At  all  events  she  walked  into  the  bar,  put  her 

-{-258  -*- 


WASHINGTON  SQUARE  SOUTH 

The  studio  quarter 


VILLAGERS 

foot  up  on  the  traditional  rail  and  began  to  con- 
verse with  the  barkeep. 

She  asked  him  if  he  had  ever  seen  any  of 
Shakespeare's  plays,  and  he  said  no.  She  asked 
him  if  he  would  like  to  see  one.  He  said  sure — 
he'd  try  anything  once.  She  invited  him  to  go  to 
see  "  Hamlet "  with  her,  and  he  said  he  was 
game.  Lest  his  sensitive  feelings  be  hurt  by  find- 
ing himself  a  humble  daw  among  the  peacocks 
of  the  rich,  gay  world,  she  bought  seats  in  the 
balcony  and  wore  her  shabbiest  gown. 

When  he  called  for  her  she  felt  slightly  faint. 
He  was  in  evening  dress,  the  most  impeccable 
evening  dress  conceivable,  even  to  the  pumps  and 
the  opera  hat.  He,  too,  looked  a  little  shocked 
when  he  saw  her.  Doubtless  he  would  have  asked 
her  to  dine  at  Rector's  first  if  she  had  been  prop- 
erly dressed  .  They  both  recovered  sufficiently 
to  go  to  "  Hamlet,"  and  she  trembled  lest  he 
would  not  like  it.  She  need  not  have  worried — 
or  rather  she  had  more  cause  to  worry  than  she 
knew.  Like  it?  He  loved  it;  he  shouted  with 
honest  mirth  from  first  to  last.  And,  when  it  was 
over 

"  Say,"  he  burst  out,  "  that  beats  any  musical 
comedy  show  hollow!  It's  the  funniest  thing  I 
ever  see  in  my  life!  " 

Henceforward  that  dear  lady  did  not  let  her 
4-259-4- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

theories  out  in  a  cold  world,  but  kept  them  safe 
in  cotton  wool  under  lock  and  key. 

There  are  fakers  in  the  Village — just  as  there 
are  fakers  everywhere  else.  Only,  of  course,  the 
ardour  of  new  ideas  which  sincerely  animates 
the  Village  does  lend  itself  to  all  manner  of 
poses.  And  because  of  this  a  perfectly  earnest 
movement  will  attract  a  number  of  superficial 
dilettanti  who  dabble  in  it  until  it  is  in  disrepute. 
And,  vice  versa,  a  crassly  artificial  fad  will,  by 
its  novelty  and  picturesqueness,  draw  some  of  the 
real  thinking  people.  Such  inconsistencies  and 
discrepancies  are  bound  to  occur  in  any  such 
mental  crucible  as  Greenwich.  And,  moreover, 
if  the  true  and  the  false  get  a  bit  mixed  once  in 
a  way,  the  wise  traveller  who  goes  to  learn  and 
not  to  sit  in  judgment  will  not  look  upon  it  to 
the  disadvantage  or  the  disparagement  of  the 
Village.  Young,  fervent  and  courageous  souls 
may  make  a  vast  quantity  of  mistakes  ere  they  be 
proved  wrong  with  any  sort  of  sound  reasoning. 
If  our  Villagers  run  off  at  tangents  on  occasion, 
follow  a  few  false  gods  and  tie  the  cosmos  into 
knots,  it  is,  one  may  take  it,  rather  to  their 
credit  than  otherwise.  No  one  ever  accomplished 
anything  by  sitting  still  and  looking  at  a  wall. 
And  it  is  far  better  to  make  a  fool  of  your- 
self with  an  intense  object,  than  to  make  nothing 

-*-  260  -*- 


VILLAGERS 

of  yourself  and  have  no  particular  object  at 
all! 

There  are  all  sorts  of  fakers — conscious  or 
otherwise.  There  is  the  futurist,  post-impres- 
sionist poseur  who  more  than  half  believes  in  his 
own  pose.  Possibly  two  small  incidents  may  in- 
dictate  what  the  genuine  Villagers  think  of  him. 

There  was  once  a  post-impressionist  exhibition 
at  the  Liberal  Club,  and  a  certain  young  man 
who  shall  be  nameless  was  placed  in  charge  of 
it.  He  was  a  perfectly  sane  young  man  and  he 
knew  that  many  of  the  "  art  specimens  "  hung 
on  such  occasions  were  flagrant  frauds.  Sketch 
after  sketch,  study  after  study,  was  sent  in  to  him 
as  master  of  ceremonies  until,  in  his  own  words, 
he  became  so  "  fed  up  with  post-impressionism 
that  he  could  not  stand  another  daub  of  the 
stuff!"  The  worm  turned  eventually,  and  he 
vowed  to  teach  those  "  artists "  a  short,  sweet 
lesson.  He  knew  nothing  about  painting,  being 
a  writer  by  trade,  but  he  had  the  run  of  several 
studios  and  could  collect  paint  as  he  willed. 
After  fortifying  himself  with  a  sufficiency  of 
Dutch  courage,  he  set  up  a  canvas  and  painted  a 
picture.  It  had  no  subject,  no  lines,  no  scheme, 
no  integral  idea.  It  was  just  a  squareful  of  paint 
—and  it  held  every  shade  and  variety  of  paint 
that  he  could  lay  his  hands  on.  He  says  that  he 
-*-  261  -*- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

took  a  wicked  satisfaction  in  smearing  the  colours 
upon  that  desecrated  canvas.  His  disgust  with 
the  futurist  artists  who  had  submitted  their  works 
for  exhibition  was  one  element  to  nerve  his  arm 
and  fire  his  resentful  spirit — another  was  the 
stimulus  he  had,  in  sheer  desperation,  wooed  so 
recklessly.  When  the  thing  was  done  it  was 
something  for  angels  and  devils  alike  to  tremble 
before.  It  meant  nothing,  of  course,  but,  like 
many  inscrutable  and  unfathomable  things,  it 
terrified  by  its  sheer  blank,  chaotic  madness.  He 
hung  it  in  the  exhibition.  And  it  was — yes,  it 
was — the  hit  of  the  occasion.  This  is  not  a  fairy 
tale — not  even  fiction.  The  story  was  told  me  by 
the  culprit — or  was  it  genius? — himself. 

And  then  people  began  to  talk  about  it  and 
speculate  on  what  its  real,  inner  meaning  might 
be.  They  said  it  was  a  "  mood  picture,"  a  "  study 
in  soul-tones  "  and  a  lot  more  like  that.  They 
even  asked  the  guilty  man  what  he  thought  of  it. 
When  he  coldly  responded  that  he  thought  it 
"  looked  like  the  devil "  they  told  him  that,  of 
course  he  would  say  so:  he  had  no  soul  for  art. 

Now,  he  had  signed  this  horror,  but  (let  me 
quote  him) :  "  I  had  signed  it  in  a  post-impres- 
sionist style,  so  no  one  on  the  earth  could  read 
the  name." 

After  a  few  days  an  artist  came  along  who  was 
-*-  262  -f- 


VILLAGERS 

not  wholly  obsessed  with  the  new  craze.  He 
studied  the  thing  on  the  wall,  and  after  a  while 
he  said:  "  Someone  is  guying  you.  That  isn't  a 
picture.  It's  a  joke." 

The  futurist  devotees  were  indignant,  but  there 
were  enough  who  were  stung  by  faint  suspicion 
to  investigate.  They  studied  that  signature  up- 
side down  and  under  a  microscope.  After  a 
while  they  got  the  identity  of  the  man  responsible 
for  it,  and — we  draw  a  veil  over  the  rest! 

Then  there  was  the  man — another  one — who, 
by  way  of  a  cheerful  experiment,  painted  a  post- 
impressionist  picture  with  a  billiard  cue,  jabbing 
gaily  at  the  canvas  as  though  trying  to  make 
difficult  screwed  shots,  caroms  and  so  on.  Having 
done  his  worst  in  this  way,  he  then  took  his  pic- 
ture to  a  gallery  and  exhibited  it  upside  down. 
It  attracted  much  attention  and  a  fair  quota  of 
praise. 

Stories  such  as  these  might  discourage  one  if 
one  did  not  keep  remembering  that  even  in  far 
deeper  and  greater  affairs  of  life,  "  A  hair  per- 
haps divides  the  false  and  true."  Who  are  we 
to  improve  on  Omar's  wise  and  tolerant  phil- 
osophy? 

I  have  less  sympathy  with  the  girl  who  wrote 
poetry,  and  even  occasionally  sold  it,  at  so  much 
a  line.  Having  sold  a  poem  of  eighteen  lines 
-1-263-!- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

for  $9.00  she  almost  wept  because,  as  she  ingenu- 
ously complained,  she  might  just  as  easily  have 
written  twenty  lines  for  $10.00! 

Then  there  is  the  fair  Villager  who  intones 
Walt  Whitman  to  music  of  her  own  composition; 
that  is  a  bit  trying,  I  grant  you.  And  the  male 
Villager  who  frequents  spiritualistic  seances  and 
communes  with  dead  poets. 

One  night  Emerson  presided.  And,  after  the 
ghosts  had  departed,  the  spiritualistic  Villager 
read  some  of  his  own  poems. 

"  And  do  you  know,"  he  declared,  enraptured, 
"  everyone  thought  it  was  still  Emerson  who  was 
speaking! " 

Now  for  him  we  may  have  sympathy.  He  is 
perhaps  a  faker,  but  I  am  inclined  to  believe  that 
he  is  that  anachronism,  a  sincere  faker.  He  is 
on  the  level.  Like  two-thirds  of  the  Village,  he 
is  playing  his  game  with  his  whole  heart  and 
soul,  with  all  that  is  in  him.  I  am  afraid  that 
it  would  be  hard  to  say  as  much  for  a  certain 
class  of  outside-the- Village  fakers  who,  from 
time  to  time,  drift  into  the  cheery  confines  thereof 
and  carry  away  sacks  of  shekels — though  not,  let 
us  hope,  as  much  as  they  wanted  to  get! 

Have  you  ever  heard,  for  instance,  of  the  psycho- 
analysts? They  diagnose  soul  troubles  as  regu- 
lar doctors  diagnose  diseases  of  the  body,  and 

-*-  264  -*- 


VILLAGERS 

they  are  in  great  demand.  Some  of  them  are 
alienists,  healers  of  sick  brains;  some  of  them  are 
just — fakers.  They  charge  immense  prices,  and 
just  for  the  moment  the  blessed  Village — always 
passionately  hospitable  to  new  cults  and  theories 
and  visions — is  receiving  them  cordially,  with 
arms  and  purses  that  are  both  wide  open. 

None  of  us  can  afford  to  depreciate  the  genius 
nor  the  judgment  of  Freud,  but  I  defy  any  Freud- 
alienist  to  efficiently  psychoanalyse  the  Village! 
By  the  time  he  were  half  done  with  the  job  he 
would  be  a  Villager  himself  and  then — pouf! 
That  for  his  psychoanalysis! 

Have  you  ever  read  that  most  enchanting  book 
of  Celtic  mysticism,  inconsequent  whimsey  and 
profound  symbolism — "  The  Crock  of  Gold  " 
by  one  James  Stevens?  The  author  is  not  a  Vil- 
lager, and  his  message  is  one  which  has  its  root 
and  spring  in  the  signs  and  wonders  of  another, 
an  older  and  a  more  intimately  wise  land  than 
ours.  But  when  I  read  of  those  pure,  half-pagan 
immortals  in  the  dance  of  the  Sluaige  Shee  (the 
Fairy  Hosts)  I  could  not  help  thinking  that 
Greenwich  Village  might  well  adopt  certain  pas- 
sages as  fitting  texts  and  interpretations  of  them- 
selves and  their  own  lives — "  The  lovers  of  gaiety 
and  peace,  long  defrauded." 

The  Shee,  as  they  dance,  sing  to  the  old  grey 
-*-  265  -*- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

world-dwellers, — or  Stevens  says  they  do,  and  I 
for  one  believe  he  knows  all  there  is  to  know 
about  it  ('tis  a  Leprechaun  he  has  for  a  friend) : 

"  Come  to  us,  ye  who  do  not  know  where  ye  are 
—ye  who  live  among  strangers  in  the  houses  of 
dismay  and  self-righteousness.  Poor,  awkward 
ones!  How  bewildered  and  be-devilled  ye  go! 
...  In  what  prisons  are  ye  flung?  To  what 
lowliness  are  ye  bowed?  How  are  ye  ground 
between  the  laws  and  the  customs?  Come  away! 
For  the  dance  has  begun  lightly,  the  wind  is 
sounding  over  the  hill.  ..." 


266 


And  Then  More  Ftllagers 


CHAPTER  IX 

And  Then  More  Villagers 

...  A  meeting  place  for  the  few  who  are  struggling  ever 
and  ever  for  an  art  that  will  be  truly  American.  An  art  that 
is  not  hidebound  by  the  deadening  influences  of  a  decadent 
Europe,  or  the  result  of  intellectual  theories  evolved  by  those 
whose  only  pleasure  in  existence  is  to  create  laws  for  others  to 
obey  ...  an  art,  let  us  say,  that  springs  out  of  the  emotional 
depths  of  creative  spirit,  courageous  and  unafraid  of  rotting 
power,  or  limited  scope  ...  an  art  whose  purpose  is  flaming 
beauty  of  creation  and  nothing  else. — HAROLD  HERSEY,  in  The 
Quill  (Greenwich  Village). 

OMEONE  said  today  to  the  author  of 
this  book: 

"  How  can  you  write  about  the  Vil- 
lage?   You  don't  live  here.     Live  here 
a  few  years  and  then  perhaps  you'll  have  some- 
thing to  say!  " 

It  is  by  way  of  answer  that  the  following  little 
tale  is  quoted;  it  is  an  old  tale  but,  after  a  fashion, 
it  seems  to  fit. 

Once  upon  a  time   an   explorer   discovered   a 
country  and  set  about  to  write  a  book  concerning 
it.  Then  the  people  of  the  country  became  some- 
what indignant  and  asked: 
-*-  269  -*- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

"  Why  should  a  stranger,  who  has  scarcely 
learned  his  way  about  in  our  land,  attempt  to 
describe  it?  We,  who  have  lived  in  it  and  know 
it,  will  write  its  chronicles  ourselves." 

So  the  traveller  sat  down  and  shut  the  book  in 
which  he  had  begun  to  write  and  said: 

"  Well  and  good.  Do  you  write  about  your 
country,  the  land  you  have  lived  in  so  long  and 
know  so  well,  and  we  will  see  what  we  shall  see." 

So  the  people  of  the  country — or  their  scribes, 
a  most  gifted  company — began  the  task  of  describ- 
ing that  which  they  knew  and  loved,  and  had 
lived  in  and  with  since  birth.  And  after  they 
were  through  they  took  the  fruits  of  their  joint 
labours  to  an  assemblage  of  kings  in  a  far-off  place. 

And  the  kings  said,  after  they  had  read: 

"  This  is  beautiful  literature,  but  what  is  the 
country  like, — that  of  which  they  write?" 

So  one  of  their  chamberlains,  who  was  a  plain 
soul,  said  sensibly: 

"  Your  Majesties,  there  is  only  one  fault  to 
find  with  the  book  written  by  these  people  about 
their  country,  and  that  is  that  they  know  it  too 
well  to  describe  it  well." 

Therefore  one  of  the  kings  said,  "  How  can  that 
be  truth?  For  what  we  are  close  to  we  must  see 
more  clearly  than  others  who  view  it  from  afar." 

So  the  sensible  chamberlain  took  a  certain  little 
•*-  270  -j- 


AND  THEN  MORE  VILLAGERS 

object  and  held  it  close  to  the  eyes  of  one  of 
the  kings,  and  cried,  "  What  is  this?  " 

And  the  king,  blinking  and  scowling,  said  after 
a  bit: 

"  It  is  a  volcano!  " 

The  chamberlain  answered,  "Wrong;  it  is  an 
inkstand,"  and  showing  it  proved  that  he  spoke 
truth. 

Then  he  held  another  thing  close  before  the 
eyes  of  another  king  and  cried  again,  "  What  is 
this?" 

And  this  king,  puzzled,  said,  "  I  think  it  is  a 
little  piece  of  cloth." 

"  Wrong,"  said  the  sensible  chamberlain.  "  It 
is  the  statue  of  the  Winged  Victory." 

And  this  happened  not  once  but  many  times  un- 
til at  length  the  kings  understood.  And  they  made 
a  law  that  no  one  should  stand  too  close  to  the 
thing  he  wished  to  see  clearly.  And  they  added 
their  judgment  that  only  the  visitors  to  a  country 
could  see  it  as  it  is. 

So  the  traveller  dipped  his  quill  in  ink  once 
more  and  started  writing  his  book.  It  is  not  yet 
known  how  successful  he  was. 

Travellers   make    terrible    errors,    and   yet    at 

times  they  bring  back  fragments  of  truth  that  the 

natives  of  the  land  have  left  unheeded  scattered 

on  the  soil  of  the  countryside.     Sometimes  their 

-*-  271  -j- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

fragments  prove  to  be  useless  and  without  value, 
for  there  are  travellers  and  travellers,  and  some 
will  be  as  stupid  and  as  blind  as  the  rest  are 
clever.  If  this  book  turns  out  to  be  written  by 
one  of  the  stupid  travellers — try  to  be  generous, 
you  Villagers — but  then  the  Village  is  always 
generous  I 

The  studio  life  of  Greenwich  is  really  and  truly 
as  primitive,  as  picturesque,  as  poverty-stricken 
and  as  gaily  adventurous  as  the  story-tellers  say. 
People  really  do  live  in  big,  quaint,  bare  rooms 
with  scarcely  enough  to  buy  the  necessaries  of 
life;  and  they  are  undoubtedly  gay  in  the  doing 
of  it.  There  is  a  sort  of  camaraderie  among  the 
"  Bohemians "  of  the  world  below  Fourteenth 
Street  which  the  more  restricted  uptowners  find 
it  hard  to  believe  in.  It  is  difficult  for  those  up- 
towners to  understand  a  condition  of  mind  which 
makes  it  possible  for  a  number  of  ambitious 
young  people  in  a  studio  building  to  go  fireless 
and  supperless  one  day  and  feast  gloriously  the 
next;  to  share  their  rare  windfalls  without  thought 
of  obligation  on  any  side;  to  burn  candles  instead 
of  kerosene  in  order  to  dine  at  "  Polly's  " ;  to  bor- 
row each  other's  last  pennies  for  books  or  pic- 
tures or  drawing  materials,  knowing  that  they 
will  all  go  without  butter  or  milk  for  tomorrow's 
breakfast. 

-f-  272  -*- 


AND  THEN  MORE  VILLAGERS 

If  one  is  hard  up,  one  expects  to  be  offered  a 
share  in  someone's  good  fortune;  if  one  has  had 
luck  oneself,  one  expects,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
to  share  it.  Such  is  the  code  of  the  studios. 

Anabel,  for  example,  is  sitting  up  typing  her 
newest  poem  at  i  A.M.  when  a  knock  comes  on  the 
studio  door.  She  opens  it  to  confront  the  man 
who  lives  on  the  top  floor  and  whom  she  has  never 
met.  She  hasn't  the  least  idea  what  his  name  is. 
He  carries  a  tea  caddy,  a  teapot  and  a  teacup. 

"  Sorry,"  he  explains  casually,  "  but  I  saw  your 
light,  and  I  thought  you'd  let  me  use  your  gas 
stove  to  make  some  tea.  Mine  is  out  of  commis- 
sion. Just  go  ahead  with  your  work,  while  I  fuss 
about.  Maybe  you'd  take  a  cup  when  it's  ready?  " 

Anabel  does,  and  he  retires,  cheerfully  uncon- 
scious of  anything  unconventional  in  the  episode. 

"  Jimmy,"  calls  Louise,  the  fashion  illustrator, 
from  the  front  door,  one  day,  "  I  have  to  have 
two  dollars  to  pay  my  gas  bill.  Got  any?  " 

"  One-sixty,"  floats  down  a  voice  from  upstairs. 

"  Chuck  it  down,  please.  I'll  be  getting  some 
pay  tomorrow,  and  we  can  blow  it  in." 

So  Jimmy  chucks  it  down.  Louise  is  a  nice 
girl,  and  would  merrily  "  chuck  "  him  the  same 
amount  if  she  happened  to  have  it  That's  all 
there  is  to  it. 

There  is  a  great  deal  of  nonsense  talked  about 
•^273-+- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

the  wickedness  or  at  least  the  impropriety  of 
Greenwich  Village — and  some  of  the  talk  is  by 
people  who  ought  to  know  better.  The  Village 
is,  to  be  sure,  entirely  unconventional  and  incur- 
ably romantic  and  dramatic  in  its  tastes.  It  is 
appallingly  honest,  dangerously  young  in  spirit 
and  it  is  rather  too  intense  sometimes,  keyed  up 
unduly  with  ambition  and  emotion  and  the  eager- 
ness of  living.  But  wicked?  Not  a  bit  of  it! 

And  the  heavenly,  inconsequent,  infectious, 
absurd  gaiety  of  it! 

The  Lady  Who  Owns  the  Parrot  (Pollypet  is 
the  bird's  name)  appears  in  a  new  hat;  a  gor- 
geous, new  hat,  with  a  band  of  scarlet  and  green 
feathers. 

"Whence  the  more  than  Oriental  splendour?" 
demands  in  surprise  the  Poet  from  the  Third 
Floor,  who  knows  that  the  Lady  is  not  patronising 
Fifth  Avenue  shops  at  present. 

"Pollypet  is  moulting!"  explains  the  Lady  of 
the  Parrot,  with  a  laugh. 

Dear,  merry,  kindly,  pitiful  life  of  the  studios! 
— irresponsible,  perhaps,  and  not  of  vast  economic 
importance,  but  so  human  and  so  enchanting;  so 
warm  when  it  is  bitter  cold,  so  rich  when  the 
larder  is  empty,  so  gay  when  disappointment  and 
failure  are  sitting  wolf-like  at  the  door. 

A  rich  woman  who  loves  the  Village  and  often- 
•4-274-*- 


AND  THEN  MORE  VILLAGERS 

times  goes  down  there  to  buy  her  gifts  rather 
than  get  them  from  the  more  conservative  places 
uptown,  told  me  that  once  when  she  went  to  a 
Village  gift-shop  to  purchase  a  number  of  pres- 
ents, she  found  the  proprietor  away.  She  was 
asked  to  pick  out  what  she  wanted,  and  make  a 
list.  She  did.  Nobody  even  questioned  her 
accuracy.  The  next  time  she  went  she  had  a 
friend  with  her,  who  was,  I  imagine,  more  or 
less  thrilled  by  the  notion  of  approaching  the 
bad,  bold  city, — she  was  from  out  of  town.  The 
shopkeeper  was  out  in  the  back  garden  dressed  in 
blue  overalls  and  shirt,  hoeing  vigorously. 

"  Is  this  the  heart  of  Bohemia?  "  demanded  the 
astonished  provincial. 

After  their  purchases  were  made  and  done 
up,  they  wanted  twine.  Don't  forget,  please,  that 
this  was  a  shop. 

"  Twine? "  murmured  the  picturesque  pro- 
prietor gently.  "  Of  course  I  should  have  some; 
I  must  remember  to  get  some  twine!" 

The  sympathies  are  always  ready  there,  the 
pennies  too,  when  there  are  any!  A  lame  man, 
a  sick  woman,  a  little  child,  a  forlorn  dog  or 
cat, — they  have  only  to  go  and  sit  on  the  steps 
of  one  of  those  blessed  studio  buildings,  to  receive 
pity,  help  and  cheer.  And — ye  gods! — isn't  the 
fact  well  known!  And  isn't  it  taken  advantage  of, 
"*~  275  -*" 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

just!  The  swift,  unreasoning  charity  of  these 
Bohemians  is  so  well  recognised  that  it  is  a  regu- 
lar graft  for  the  unscrupulous. 

But  they  keep  right  on  being  cheated  right  and 
left;  thank  heaven,  they  will  never  learn  to  be 
wiser! 

This  difference  between  the  Village  view  and 
the  conventional  standpoint  is  very  difficult  to 
analyse.  It  really  can  only  be  made  clear  by 
examples.  As,  for  instance: 

It  is  fairly  late  in  the  evening.  In  one  of  the 
little  tea  shops  is  a  group  of  girls  and  men  smok- 
ing. To  them  enters  a  youth,  who  is  hailed  with 
"  How  is  Dickey's  neuralgia?  " 

The  newcomer  grins  and  answers:  "Better,  I 
guess.  He's  had  six  drinks,  and  is  now  asleep 
upstairs  on  Eleanore's  couch.  He'll  be  all  right 
when  he  wakes  up." 

They  laugh,  but  quite  sympathetically,  and  the 
subject  is  dismissed. 

Now,  there  is  a  noteworthy  point  in  this  trifling 
episode,  though  it  may  appear  a  trifle  obscure  at 
first.  There  is,  to  be  sure,  nothing  especially  in- 
teresting or  edifying  in  the  fact  of  a  young  man's 
drinking  himself  into  insensibility  to  dull  a  face- 
ache;  the  thing  has  been  known  before.  Neither 
is  it  an  unheard-of  occurrence  for  a  friendly 
and  charitably  inclined  woman  to  grant  him 

-e-  276  -t- 


MACDOUGAL  ALLEY 


AND  THEN  MORE  VILLAGERS 

harbour  room  till  he  has  slept  it  off.  The  only 
striking  point  about  this  is  that  it  is  taken  so 
entirely  as  a  matter  of  course  by  the  Villagers. 
It  no  more  astonishes  them  that  Eleanore  should 
give  up  her  couch  to  a  male  acquaintance  for  an 
indefinite  number  of  night  hours,  than  that  she 
should  give  him  a  cup  of  tea.  It  is  entirely  the 
proper,  kindly  thing  to  do;  if  Eleanore  had  not 
done  it,  she  would  not  be  a  Villager,  and  the 
Village  would  have  none  of  her. 

It  may  be  further  remarked  that,  if  you  should 
go  upstairs  to  Eleanore's  studio,  you  would  find 
that  she  takes  the  presence  on  the  couch  as  calmly 
as  though  it  were  a  bundle  of  laundry.  She  is 
in  no  sense  disconcerted  by  the  occasional  snore 
that  wakes  the  midnight  echoes.  She  works 
peacefully  on  at  the  black-and-white  poster  which 
she  is  going  to  submit  tomorrow.  She  does  not 
resent  Dickey  at  all.  Neither  does  she  watch  his 
slumbers  tenderly  nor  hover  over  him  in  the  ap- 
proved manner.  Eleanore  is  not  the  least  bit 
sentimental, — few  Villagers  are.  They  are  merely 
romantic  and  kindly,  which  are  different  and 
sturdier  graces. 

Toward  morning  Dickey  will  wake  and  Elea- 
nore will  make  him  black  coffee  and  send  him 
home.  And  there  will  be  the  end  of  that. 

Conceive  such  a  situation  on  the  outside! 
-*-  277  -?- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

Imagine  the  feminine  flutter  of  the  conventional 
Julia.  Fancy,  above  all,  the  hungry  gossip  of 
conventional  Julia's  conventional  friends!  But 
in  the  Village  there  is  very  little  scandal,  and 
practically  no  slander.  They  are  very  slow  to 
think  evil. 

And  this  in  spite  of  their  rather  ridiculous  way 
of  talking.  They  do,  a  number  of  them,  give  the 
uninitiated  an  impression  of  moral  laxity.  Their 
phrases,  "  the  free  relation,"  "  the  rights  of  sex," 
"  suppressed  desires,"  "  love  without  bonds,"  "  lib- 
erty of  the  individual "  do,  when  jumbled  up 
sufficiently,  make  a  composite  picture  of  strange 
and  lurid  aspect.  But  actually,  they  are  not  one 
atom  less  moral  than  any  other  group  of  human 
beings, — in  fact,  thanks  to  their  unquestionable 
ideals  and  their  habit  of  fearless  thinking,  they 
are,  I  think,  a  good  bit  more  so. 

"  While  I  lived  in  the  Village,"  writes  one 
shrewd  man,  "  I  heard  of  more  impropriety  and 
saw  less  of  it  than  anywhere  I've  ever  been! " 

Here  is  another  glimpse: 

The  casual  visitor  to  one  of  the  basement 
"  shops  "  climbs  down  the  steep  steps  and  pauses 
at  the  door  to  look  at  the  picture.  It  is  rather 
early,  and  only  two  customers  have  turned  up  so 
far.  They  are  sitting  in  deep,  comfortable  chairs 
smoking  and  drinking  (as  usual,  ginger-ale). 

-e-  278  -*- 


AND  THEN  MORE  VILLAGERS 

One  of  the  proprietors — a  charmingly  pretty  girl 
—is  sweeping,  preparatory  to  the  evening  "  trade." 
When  her  husband  comes  in  she  is  going  to  leave 
him  in  charge  and  go  to  the  Liberal  Club  for  a 
dance,  so  she  is  exquisitely  dressed  in  a  peach- 
coloured  gown,  open  of  neck  and  short  of  sleeve. 
She  is  slim  and  graceful  and  her  bright-brown 
hair  is  cropped  in  the  Village  mode.  She  is  the 
most  attractive  maid-of-all-work  that  the  two 
"  customers "  have  ever  seen.  When,  pausing  in 
her  labours,  she  offers  them  her  own  cigarette 
case  with  the  genuine  simplicity  and  grace  of  a 
child  offering  sweetmeats,  their  subjugation  is 
complete.  Though  they  are  strangers  in  a  strange 
land — they  have  only  dropped  in  to  find  out  an 
address  of  a  friend  who  lives  in  the  Village — 
they  never  misunderstand  the  situation,  their 
hostess  nor  the  atmosphere  for  a  moment.  No 
one  misunderstands  the  charming,  picturesque 
camaraderie  of  the  Village — unless  they  have 
been  reading  Village  novelists,  that  breed  held 
in  contempt  by  Harry  Kemp  and  all  the  Green- 
wichers.  Anyone  who  goes  there  with  an  open 
mind  will  carry  it  away  filled  with  nothing  but 
good  things — save  sometimes  perhaps  a  little  envy. 
And,  by  the  bye,  that  habit  of  calling  at  strange 
places  to  locate  people  is  emphatically  a  Village 
custom.  Or  rather,  perhaps,  it  should  be  put  the 
-*-  279  -t- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

other  way:  the  habit  of  giving  some  "shop"  or 
eating  place  instead  of  a  regular  address  is  most 
prevalent  among  Villagers.  A  Villager  is  seldom 
in  his  own  quarters  unless  he  has  a  shop  of  his 
own.  But  if  he  really  "  belongs "  he  is  known 
to  hundreds  of  other  people,  and  the  enquiring 
caller  will  be  passed  along  from  one  place  to 
another,  until,  in  time,  he  will  be  almost  certain 
to  locate  his  nomadic  friend. 

"  Billy  Robinson?  Why,  yes,  of  course,  we 
know  him.  No,  he  hasn't  been  in  tonight.  But 
you  try  some  of  the  other  places  that  he  goes  to. 
He's  very  apt  to  drop  in  at  the  *  Klicket '  during 
the  evening.  Or  if  he  isn't  there  try  '  The  Mad 
Hatter's,' — 'Down  the  Rabbit  Hole'  you  know; 
— or  let's  see — he'll  be  sure  to  show  up  at  the 
Club  some  time  before  midnight.  If  you  don't 
find  him  come  back  here;  maybe  he'll  drop  in 
later,  or  else  someone  will  who  has  seen  him." 

Of  course,  he  is  found  eventually, — usually 
quite  soon,  for  the  Village  is  a  small  place,  and  a 
true  Village  in  its  neighbourliness  and  its  readi- 
ness to  pass  a  message  along. 

Really,  there  is  nothing  quainter  about  it  than 
this  intimate  and  casual  quality,  such  as  is  known 
in  genuine,  small  country  towns.  Fancy  a  part  of 
New  York  City — Gotham,  the  cold,  the  selfish, 
the  unneighbourly,  the  indifferent — in  which 

-»-  280-?- 


everyone  knows  everyone  else  and  takes  a  per- 
sonal interest  in  them  too;  where  distances  are 
slight  and  pleasant,  where  young  men  in  loose 
shirts  with  rolled-up  sleeves,  or  girls  hatless  and 
in  working  smocks  stroll  across  Sixth  Avenue 
from  one  square  to  another  with  as  little  self- 
consciousness  as  though  they  were  meandering 
down  Main  Street  to  a  game  of  tennis  or  the 
village  store!  Sixth  Avenue,  indeed,  has  come 
to  mean  nothing  more  to  them  than  a  rustic 
bridge  or  a  barbed-wire  fence, — something  to 
be  gotten  over  speedily  and  forgotten.  They  even, 
by  some  alchemy  of  view  point,  seem  to  give  it  a 
rural  air  from  Jefferson  Market  down  to  Fourth 
Street — these  cool-looking,  hatless  young  people 
who  make  their  leisurely  way  down  Washington 
Place  or  along  Fourth  Street.  People  pass  them, 
—people  in  hats,  coats  and  carrying  bundles;  but 
the  Villagers  do  not  notice  them.  They  do  not 
even  look  at  them  pityingly;  they  do  not  look  at 
them  at  all.  Your  true  Green-Village  denizen 
does  not  like  to  look  at  unattractive  objects  if  he 
can  possibly  avoid  it. 

Of  course,  they  do  make  use  of  Sixth  Avenue 
occasionally,  on  their  rare  trips  uptown.  But  it 
is  in  the  same  spirit  that  a  country  dweller  would 
take  the  railway  in  order  to  get  into  the  city  on 
necessary  business.  As  a  matter  of  fact  there  is 
-j-  281  -*• 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

no  corner  of  New  York  more  conveniently  sit- 
uated for  transportation  than  this  particular  sec- 
tion of  Greenwich.  I  came  across  a  picturesque 
real  estate  advertisement  the  other  day: 

"  If  you  ever  decide  to  kill  your  barber  and 
fly  the  country,  commit  the  crime  at  the  corner 
of  Eighth  Street  and  Sixth  Avenue.  There  is 
probably  no  other  place  in  the  world  that  offers 
as  many  avenues  of  flight." 

But  nothing  short  of  dire  necessity  ever  takes  a 
Villager  uptown.  He,  or  she,  may  go  down- 
town but  not  up.  Uptown  nearly  always  means 
something  distasteful  and  boring  to  the  Village; 
they  see  to  it  that  they  have  as  few  occasions  for 
going  there  as  possible. 

Anyway,  uptown,  for  them,  ends  very  far  down- 
town! The  fifties,  forties,  thirties,  even  the  twen- 
ties, are  to  them  the  veritable  wilderness,  the 
variously  repugnant  sections  of  relatively  outer 
darkness. 

Do  you  remember  Colonel  Turnbull  who  had 
so  much  trouble  in  selling  his  house  at  Eighth 
Street  because  it  was  so  far  out  of  town?  Here 
is  a  modern  and  quite  surprisingly  neat  analogy: 

Two  Village  women  of  my  acquaintance  met 
the  other  day.  Said  one  tragically:  "My  dear, 

-*-  282  -»- 


AND  THEN  MORE  VILLAGERS 

isn't  it  awful?  We've  had  to  move  uptown! 
Since  the  baby  came,  we  need  a  larger  house, 
but  it  almost  breaks  my  heart!  " 

"  I  should  think  so!  "  gasped  the  second  woman 
in  consternation.  "  You've  always  been  such 
regular  Villagers.  What  shall  we  do  without 
you?  It's  terrible!  Where  are  you  moving  to, 
dear?" 

West  Eleventh  Street!"  sobbed  the  sad, 
prospective  exile. 

There  are  Villagers  who  while  scarcely  celeb- 
rities are  characters  so  well  known,  locally,  as  to 
stand  out  in  bizarre  relief  even  against  that  varie- 
gated background  of  personalities.  There  is 
Doris,  the  dancer,  slim,  strange,  agile,  with  a 
genius  for  the  centre  of  the  Bohemian  stage,  an 
expert,  exotic  style  of  dancing,  and  a  singular  and 
touching  passion  for  her  only  child.  At  the 
Greenwich  masquerades  she  used  to  shine  re- 
splendent, her  beautiful,  lithe  body  glorious  with 
stage-jewels,  and  not  much  else;  for  the  time 
being  she  has  flitted  away,  but  some  day  she  will 
surely  return  like  a  darkly  brilliant  butterfly,  and 
the  Village  will  again  thrill  to  her  dancing. 
There  is  Hyppolite,  the  anarchist,  dark  and 
fervid ;  there  is  "  Bobby  "  Edwards,  the  Village 
troubadour,  with  his  self-made  and  self-decorated 
ukelele,  and  his  cat,  Dirty  Joe;  there  is  Charlie — 
-*-  283  -*• 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

immortal  barber! — whose  trade  is  plied  in  sublime 
accordance  with  Village  standards,  and  whose 
"  ad  "  runs  as  follows : 

"  The  only  barber  shop  in  the  Village  where 
work  is  done  conforming  to  its  ideals.  .  .  .  Four 
barbers  in  attendance  supervised  by  the  popular 
boy-proprietor— CHARLIE." 

There  is  Peggy,  the  artist's  model,  who  has 
posed  for  almost  every  artist  of  note,  and  who  is 
as  pretty  as  a  pink  carnation. 

There  is  Tiny  Tim — of  immense  proportions 
— who  keeps  the  Tiny  Tim  Candy  Shop;  an 
impressive  person  who  carries  trays  of  candy 
about  the  Village,  and  who  swears  that  he  has 
sweets  to  match  your  every  mood. 

"  If  they  don't  express  your  character,  I'll 
take  them  back!"  he  declares.  Though  how  he 
could  take  them  back.  .  .  .  However,  in  the 
Village  you  need  not  be  too  exact.  There  is 
"  Ted  "  Peck's  Treasure  Box.  Here  all  manner 
of  charming  things  are  sold;  and  here  Florence 
Beales  exhibits  her  most  exquisite  studies  in 
photography. 

There  is  the  strong-minded  young  woman,  who 
is  always  starting  clubs;  there  is  the  Osage  Indian 
who  speaks  eight  languages  and  draws  like  a  god; 

-<-  284-!- 


AND  THEN  MORE  VILLAGERS 

there  are  a  hundred  and  one  familiar  spirits  of 
the  Village,  eccentric,  inasmuch  as  they  are  un- 
like the  rest  of  the  world,  but  oh,  believe  me,  a 
goodly  company  to  have  as  neighbours. 

People  have  three  mouthpieces,  three  vehicles 
of  expression,  besides  their  own  lips.  We  are 
not  talking  now  about  that  self-expression  which 
is  to  be  found  in  individual  act  or  word  in  any 
form.  We  are  speaking  in  a  more  practical  and 
also  a  more  social  sense.  In  this  sense  we  may 
cite  three  distinct  ways  in  which  a  community 
may  become  articulate:  through  its  press;  through 
its  clubs  or  associations;  through  its  entertain- 
ments and  social  life.  Greenwich  has  a  number 
of  magazines,  an  even  larger  number  of  clubs 
and  an  unconscionable  number  of  ways  of  enter- 
taining itself — from  theatrical  companies  to  balls! 

Of  course  the  best  known  of  the  Greenwich 
magazines  is  The  Masses,  owned  by  Max.  East- 
man and  edited  by  Floyd  Dell.  It  has,  in  a 
sense,  grown  beyond  the  Village,  inasmuch  as  it 
now  circulates  all  over  the  country,  wherever 
socialistic  or  anarchistic  tendencies  are  to  be 
found.  But  its  inception  was  in  Greenwich  Vil- 
lage, and  in  its  infant  days  it  strongly  reflected 
the  radical,  young,  insurgent  spirit  which  was 
just  beginning  to  ferment  in  the  world  below 
Fourteenth  Street.  In  those  days  it  was  poor  and 

-<-  285  -j- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

struggling  too  (as  is  altogether  fitting  in  a  Vil- 
lage paper)  and  lost  nothing  in  freshness  and 
spontaneity  and  vigour  from  that  fact. 

"You  might  tell,"  said  Floyd  Dell,  with  a 
twinkle,  "  of  the  days  when  The  Masses  was  in 
Greenwich  Avenue,  and  the  editor,  the  business 
manager  and  the  stenographer  played  ball  in  the 
street  all  day  long! " 

It  is,  perhaps,  symbolic  that  The  Masses  in 
moving  uptown  stopped  at  Fourteenth  Street,  the 
traditional  and  permanent  boundary  line.  There 
it  may  reach  out  and  touch  the  great  world,  yet 
still  remain  part  of  the  Village  where  it  was 
born. 

Here  is  one  man's  views  of  the  Liberal  Club. 
I  am  half  afraid  to  quote  them,  they  sound  so 
heretical,  but  I  wish  to  emphasise  the  fact  that 
they  are  quoted.  They  might  be  the  snapping 
of  the  fox  at  the  sour  grapes  for  all  I  know! 
Though  this  particular  man  seemed  calm  and 
dispassionate.  "  The  Liberal  Club  Board,"  he 
said,  "  is  a  purely  autocratic  institution.  It  is 
collectively  a  trained  poodle,  though  composed 
of  nine  members.  The  procedure  is  to  make  a 
few  long  speeches,  praise  the  club,  and  re-elect 
the  Board.  Perfectly  simple.  But — did  you  say 
Liberal  Club?"  He  used  to  sit  on  the  Board 
himself,  too! 

•4-286-* 


AND  THEN  MORE  VILLAGERS 

A  visiting  Scotch  socialist  proclaimed  it,  with- 
out passion,  a  "  hell  of  a  place,"  and  some  of  its 
most  striking  anarchistic  leaders,  "  vera  interestin' 
but  terrible  damn  fools "!  But  he  was,  doubtless, 
an  eccentric  though  an  experienced  and  dyed-in- 
the-wool  socialist  who  had  lectured  over  half  the 
globe.  It  is  recorded  of  him  that  once  when 
a  certain  young  and  energetic  Village  editor  had 
been  holding  forth  uninterruptedly  and  dra- 
matically for  an  hour  on  the  rights  of  the  work- 
ing-man, etc.,  etc.,  the  visiting  socialist,  who  had 
been  watching  his  fervent  gesticulations  with 
absorbed  attention,  suddenly  leaned  forward  and 
seized  the  lapel  of  his  coat. 

"Mon!"  he  exclaimed  earnesly,  "do  ye  play 
tennis?  " 

Just  what  is  the  Liberal  Club? 

You  may  have  contradictory  answers  commen- 
surate with  the  number  of  members  you  interro- 
gate. One  will  tell  you  that  it  is  a  fake;  one 
that  it  is  the  only  vehicle  of  free  speech;  Arthur 
Moss  says  it  is  "  the  most  //-liberal  club  in  the 
world"!  Floyd  Dell  says  it  is  paramountly  a 
medium  for  entertainment,  and  that  it  is  "  not 
so  much  a  clearing  house  of  new  ideas  as  of  new 
people  "! 

The  Liberal  Club  goes  up,  and  the  Liberal 
Club  goes  down.  It  has  its  good  seasons  and  its 
-j-  287-*- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

bad,  its  fluctuations  as  to  standards  and  favour, 
its  share  in  the  curious  and  inevitable  tides  that 
swing  all  associations  back  and  forth  like  pendu- 
lums. 

There  is  a  real  passion  for  dancing  in  the 
Village,  and  it  is  beautiful  dancing  that  shows 
practice  and  a  natural  sense  of  rhythm.  The 
music  may  be  only  from  a  victrola  or  a  piano  in 
need  of  tuning,  but  the  spirit  is,  most  surely, 
the  vital  spirit  of  the  dance.  At  the  Liberal  Club 
everyone  dances.  After  you  have  passed  through 
the  lounge  room — the  conventional  outpost  of  the 
club,  with  desks  and  tables  and  chairs  and  prints 
and  so  on — you  find  yourself  in  a  corridor  with 
long  seats,  and  windows  opening  on  to  Nora  Van 
Leuwen's  big,  bare,  picturesque  Dutch  Oven 
downstairs.  On  the  other  side  of  the  corridor  is 
the  dance  room — also  the  latest  exhibition.  Some 
of  the  pictures  are  very  queer  indeed.  The  last 
lot  I  saw  were  compositions  in  deadly  tones  of 
magenta  and  purple.  The  artist  was  a  tall  young 
man,  the  son  of  a  famous  illustrator.  He  strolled 
in  quite  tranquilly  for  a  dance, — with  those  things 
of  his  in  full  view!  All  the  courage  is  not  on 
battlefields. 

Said  a  girl,  who,  Village-like,  would  not  per- 
jure her  soul  to  be  polite: 

"Why  so  much  magenta?" 


AND  THEN  MORE  VILLAGERS 

And  said  he  quite  sweetly: 

"  Why  not?  I  can  paint  people  green  if  I 
like,  can't  I?" 

With  which  he  glided  imperturbably  off  in  a 
fox  trot  with  a  girl  in  an  "  art  sweater." 

Harry  Kemp  says:  "They  make  us  sick  with 
their  scurrilous,  ignorant  stories  of  the  Village. 
Pose?  Sure! — it's  two-thirds  pose.  But  the  rest 
is  beautiful.  And  even  the  pose  is  beautiful  in  its 
way.  Life  is  rotten  and  beautiful  both  at  once. 
So  is  the  Village.  The  Village  is  big  in  idea  and 
it's  growing.  They  talk  of  its  being  a  dead  letter. 
It's  just  beginning.  First  it — the  Village,  as  it  is 
now — was  really  a  sort  of  off-shoot  of  London  and 
Paris.  Now  it's  itself  and  I  tell  you  it's  beautiful, 
and  more  remarkable  than  people  know. 

"  Uptowners,  outsiders,  come  in  here  and  in- 
sist on  getting  in ;  and,  fed  on  the  sort  of  false  stuff 
that  goes  out  through  '  novelists '  and  '  reporters,' 
think  that  anything  will  go  in  the  Liberal  Club! 
They  come  here  and  insult  the  women  members, 
and  we  all  end  up  in  a  free  fight  every  week  or 
so.  All  the  fault  of  the  writers  who  got  us  wrong 
in  the  first  place,  and  handed  on  the  wrong  im- 
pression to  the  world.  ..." 

The  studio  quarters  of  the  Village  are  located 
in  various  places — the  South  Side  of  Washington 
Square,  the  little  lost  courts  and  streets  and  cor- 
-*-  289  -*- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

ners  everywhere,  and — Macdougal  Alley,  Wash- 
ington Mews,  and  the  new,  rather  stately  struc- 
tures on  Eighth  Street,  which  are  almost  too 
grand  for  real  artists  and  yet  which  have  at- 
tracted more  than  a  few  nevertheless.  I  suppose 
that  the  Alley, — jutting  off  from  the  famous 
street  named  for  Alexander  Macdougal, — is  the 
best  known. 

I  remember  that  once,  some  years  ago,  I  was 
hurrying,  by  a  short  cut,  from  Eighth  Street  to 
Waverly  Place,  and  saw  something  which  made 
me  stop  short  in  amazement.  As  unexpectedly 
as  though  it  had  suddenly  sprung  there,  I  beheld 
a  little  street  running  at  right  angles  from  me, 
parallel  with  Eighth,  but  ending,  like  a  cul  de  sac, 
in  houses  like  those  with  which  it  was  edged.  It 
was  a  quaint  and  foreign-looking  little  street  and 
seemed  entirely  out  of  place  in  New  York,— 
and  especially  out  of  place  plunged  like  that  into 
the  middle  of  a  block. 

But  that  was  not  the  oddest  part  of  it.  In  that 
street  stood  talking  a  girl  in  gorgeous  Spanish 
dress  and  a  man  in  Moorish  costume.  The  warm 
reds  and  greens  and  russets  of  their  garments 
made  an  unbelievable  patch  of  colour  in  the 
grey  March  day.  And  this  in  New  York! 

A  friendly  truck  driver,  feeding  his  horses, 
saw  my  bewilderment,  and  laughed. 

•*-  290  -*- 


A  GREENWICH  STUDIO 

Choosing  models 


AND  THEN  MORE  VILLAGERS 

"  That's  Macdougal's  Alley,"  he  volunteered. 

That  meant  nothing  to  me  then. 

"What  is  it?"  I  demanded,  devoured  by  curi- 
osity; "the  stage  door  of  a  theatre, — -or  what?" 

He  laughed  again. 

"  It  is  just  Macdougal's  Alley! "  he  repeated, 
as  though  that  explained  everything. 

So  it  did,  when  I  came  to  find  out  about  it. 

The  Alley  and  Washington  Mews  are  prob- 
ably the  most  famous  artist  quarters  in  the  city, 
and  some  of  our  biggest  painters  and  sculptors 
once  had  studios  in  one  or  the  other, — those, 
that  is,  that  haven't  them  still.  Of  course  the 
picturesquely  attired  individuals  I  had  caught 
sight  of  were  models — taking  the  air,  or  snatching 
a  moment  for  flirtation.  Naturally  they  would 
not  have  appeared  in  costume  in  any  other  street 
in  New  York,  but  this,  you  see,  was  Macdougal 
Alley,  and  as  my  friend,  the  truck  driver,  seemed 
to  think,  that  explains  everything! 

As  for  the  Mews,  they  are  fixing  it  up  in  great 
shape;  and  as  for  those  Eighth-Street  studios,  they 
are  too  beautiful  for  words.  You  look  out  on 
Italian  gardens,  and  you  know  that  you  are  no- 
where near  New  York,  with  its  prose  and  drudg- 
ery. If  for  a  moment  it  seems  all  a  bit  too  per- 
fect for  the  haphazard,  inspirational  loveliness  of 
the  Village,  you  will  surely  have  an  arresting  in- 
-*-  291  -j- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

stinct  which  will  tell  you  that  it  is  just  consum- 
mating a  Village  dream;  it  is  just  making  what 
every  Villager  lives  to  make  come  true:  perfect 
artistic  beauty. 

As  we  have  seen,  dancing  is  a  real  passion  in 
the  Village.  So  we  can  scarcely  leave  it  without 
touching  on  the  "  Village  dances  "  which  have 
been  so  striking  a  feature  of  recent  times  and 
have  proved  so  useful  and  so  fruitful  to  the  tired 
Sunday-supplement  newspaperman.  There  are 
various  sorts,  from  the  regular  pageants  staged 
by  the  Liberal  Club  and  the  Kit  Kat,  to  those  of 
more  modest  pretensions  given  by  individual 
Villagers  or  groups  of  Villagers. 

The  Quatres  Arts  balls  of  Paris  doubtless 
formed  the  basis  for  these  affairs;  indeed,  a  de- 
scription given  me  years  ago  by  William  Dodge, 
the  artist,  might  almost  serve  as  the  story  of  one 
of  these'  Village  balls  today.  And  Doris,  who, 
I  believe,  appeared  on  one  occasion  as 
"  Aphrodite," — in  appropriate  "  costume  "  —re- 
calls the  celebrated  model  Sara  Brown  who 
electrified  Paris  by  her  impersonation  of 
"  Cleopatra  "  at  a  "  Quatz  'Arts  "  gathering,— 
somewhat  similarly  arrayed, — or  should  we  say 
decorated? 

The   costumes, — many   of   them    at   least, — are 
largely — paint!     This  is  not  nearly  as  improper 
-*-  292  -*- 


AND  THEN  MORE  VILLAGERS 

as  it  sounds.  Splashes  of  clever  red  and  subtle 
purple  will  quite  creditably  take  the  place  of 
more  cumberous  and  expensive  dressing, — or  at 
least  will  pleasantly  eke  it  out  Colour  has  long 
been  recognised  as  a  perfectly  good  substitute  for 
cloth.  Have  you  forgotten  the  small  boy's  ab- 
stract of  the  first  history  book — ".  .  .  The  early 
Britons  wore  animals'  skins  in  winter,  and  in 
summer  they  painted  themselves  blue."  I  am  con- 
vinced that  wode  was  the  forerunner  of  the  dress 
of  the  Village  ball! 

The  Kit  Kat,  an  artists'  association,  is  remark- 
able for  one  curious  custom.  Its  managing  board 
is  a  profound  mystery.  No  one  knows  who  is 
responsible  for  the  invitations  sent  out,  so  there 
can  be  no  jealousy  nor  rancour  if  people  don't 
get  asked.  If  an  invited  guest  chooses  to  bring  a 
friend  he  may,  but  he  is  solely  responsible  for 
that  friend  and  if  his  charge  proves  undesirable 
he  will  be  held  accountable  and  will  thereafter 
be  quietly  dropped  from  the  guest  list  of  subse- 
quent balls.  And  still  he  will  never  know  who 
has  done  it!  Hence,  the  Kit  Kat  is  a  most 
formidable  institution,  and  invitations  from 
its  mysterious  "  Board "  are  hungrily  longed 
for! 

Every  season  there  are  other  balls,  too;  among 
the  last  was  the  "  Apes  and  Ivory  "  affair,  a  study 
4-293-*. 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

in  black  and  white,  as  may  be  gathered;  then 
there  was  the  "  Rogue's  Funeral "  ball.  This 
was  to  commemorate  the  demise  of  a  certain  little 
magazine  called  the  Rogue,  whose  career  was 
short  and  unsuccessful.  They  kept  the  funeral 
atmosphere  so  far  as  to  hire  a  hearse  for  the  trans- 
portation of  some  of  the  guests,  but— 

"We  put  the  first  three  letters  of  funeral 
in  capitals,"  says  one  of  the  participants  cas- 
ually. 

The  proper  thing,  when  festivities  are  over,  is 
to  go  to  breakfast,— at  "  Polly's,"  the  Village 
Kitchen  or  the  Dutch  Oven,  perhaps.  Of  course, 
nothing  on  earth  but  the  resiliency,  the  electric 
vitality  of  youth,  could  stand  this  sort  of  thing; 
but  then,  the  Village  is  young;  it  is  preeminently 
the  land  of  youth,  and  the  wine  of  life  is  still 
fresh  and  strong  enough  in  its  veins  to  come 
buoyantly  through  what  seems  to  an  older  con- 
sciousness a  good  bit  more  like  an  ordeal  than  an 
amusement! 

And  yet — and  yet — somehow  I  cannot  think 
that  these  balls  and  pageants  and  breakfasts  are 
truly  typical  of  the  real  Village — I  mean  the 
newest  and  the  best  Village — the  Village  which, 
like  the  Fairy  Host,  sings  to  the  sojourners  of 
the  grey  world  to  come  and  join  them  in  their 
dance,  with  "  the  wind  sounding  over  the  hill." 

-1-294-1- 


AND  THEN  MORE  VILLAGERS 

My  Village  is  something  fresher  and  gayer  and 
more  child-like  than  that.  There  is  in  it  nothing 
of  decadence. 

But,  as  John  Reed  says — 

"...    There's  aneemia 

Ev'n  in  Bohemia, 
That  there's  not  more  of  it — there  is  the  miracle!'' 

For  still  the  Village  is,  or  has  been,  inarticu- 
late. Individually  it  has  found  speech — it  has 
expressed  itself  in  diverse  and  successful  forms. 
But  there  remains  a  void  of  voices!  A  com- 
munity must  strongly  utter  something,  and  must 
find  mouths  and  mouthpieces  for  the  purpose. 
It  was  hard  to  find,  hard  to  locate,  hard  to  vocal- 
ise, this  message  of  the  Village;  eventually  it 
came  up  from  the  depths  and  pitched  its  tone 
bravely  and  sweetly,  so  that  men  might  hear  and 
understand. 

The  need  was  for  something  concrete  and  yet 
varied,  which  could  cry  out  alone, — a  delicious 
voice  in  the  wilderness,  if  you  like!  There  have 
been  play-acting  companies,  "  The  Washington 
Square  Players,"  "  The  Provincetown  Players," 
and  others.  But  something  was  still  want- 
ing. 

Sometimes  it  strikes  us  that  wonderful  things 
-1-295-*. 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

happen  haphazard  like  meteors  and  miracles. 
But  I  believe  if  we  could  take  the  time  to  in- 
vestigate, we  would  find  that  most  of  these 
miraculous  and  glorious  oaks  grow  out  of  a 
quiet  commonplace  acorn. 

Richard  Wagner  once  held  an  idea — perhaps 
it  would  better  be  termed  an  ideal — concerning 
art  expression.  He  declared  (you  may  read  it  in 
"  Oper  und  Drama "  unless  you  are  too  war- 
sided)  that  all  the  art  forms  belonged  together: 
that  no  one  branch  of  the  perfect  art  form  could 
live  apart  from  its  fellows,  that  is,  in  its  integral 
parts.  He  contended  (and  enforced  in  Bayreuth) 
that  all  the  arts  were  akin:  that  the  brains  which 
created  music,  drama,  colour  effects,  plastic 
sculptural  effects — anything  and  everything  that 
belonged  to  artistic  expression — were,  or  should 
be,  welded  into  one  supreme  artistic  expression. 
He  believed  this  implicitly,  and  like  other  persons 
who  believe  well  enough,  he  "  got  away  with  it." 
In  Bayreuth,  he  established  for  all  time  a 
form  of  synthetic  art  which  has  never  been 
rivalled. 

Now  Wagner  has  very  little  apparently  to  do 
with  Greenwich  Village.  And  yet  this  big  world- 
notion  is  gaining  way  there.  They  are  finding— 
as  anyone  must  have  known  they  would  find — a 
new  mood  expression,  a  new  voice.  And,  wise, 

-*-  296  -»- 


AND  THEN  MORE  VILLAGERS 

not  in  their  generation,  but  in  all  the  generations, 
the  Village  has  seized  on  this  new  vehicle  with 
characteristic  energy. 

The  new  Greenwich  Village  Theatre  which 
Mrs.  Sam  Lewis  is  godmothering,  is — unless 
many  sensible  and  farseeing  persons  are  much 
mistaken — going  to  be  the  new  Voice  of  the 
Village.  It  is  going  to  express  what  the  Villagers 
themselves  are  working  for,  day  and  night: 
beauty,  truth,  liberty,  novelty,  drama.  It  is 
going,  in  its  theatrical  form,  to  fill  the  need 
for  something  concrete  and  yet  various,  something 
involving  all,  yet  evolved  from  all;  something 
which  shall  somehow  unite  all  the  scattered  rain- 
bow filaments  of  Our  Village  into  a  lovely  tex- 
ture with  a  design  that  even  a  Philistine  world 
can  understand. 

"  Young,  new  American  playwrights  first," 
says  Mrs.  Lewis.  "After  that  as  many  great 
plays  of  all  kinds  as  we  can  find.  But  we  want 
to  open  the  channel  for  expression.  We  want  to 
give  the  Village  a  voice." 

And  when  she  says  the  Village  she  does  not 
mean  just  the  section  technically  known  as  Green- 
wich. She  means — I  take  it — that  greater  neigh- 
bourhood of  the  world,  which  is  fervently  con- 
cerned in  the  new  and  thrilling  and  wonderful 
and  untrammelled  things  of  life.  They  have  no 
-*-  297  -*- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

place  to  sing,  out  in  the  everyday  world,  but  in 
the  Village  they  are  going  to  be  heard. 

And  I  think  the  new  Greenwich  Village 
Theatre  is  going  to  be  one  of  their  most  resonant 
mouthpieces! 


298 


A  LAST  WORD 

AND  after  all  this, — what  of  the  Village?  Just 
what  is  it? 

"  In  my  experience,"  said  the  writing  man  of 
sententious  sayings,  "  there  have  been  a  dozen 
1  villages.'  The  Village  changes  are  like  the 
waves  of  the  sea! " 

Interrogated  further,  he  mentioned  various 
phases  which  Greenwich  had  known.  The  studio- 
and-poverty  Bohemian  epoch,  the  labour  and 
anarchy  era,  the  futurist  fad,  the  "  free  love " 
cult,  the  Bohemian-and-masquerade-ball  period, 
the  psychoanalysis  craze;  the  tea-shop  epidemic, 
the  arts-and-crafts  obsession,  the  play-acting 
mania;  and  other  violent  and  more  or  less  transient 
enthusiasms  which  had  possessed  the  Village  dur- 
ing the  years  he  had  lived  there.  Not  wholly 
transient,  he  admitted.  Something  of  each  and  all 
of  them  had  remained — had  stuck — as  he  ex- 
pressed it.  The  Village  assimilates  ideas  with 
miraculous  speed;  it  gobbles  them  up,  gets  strong 
and  well  on  the  diet,  and  asks  for  more.  It  is  so 
eager  for  novelty  and  new  ideals  and  new  view- 
points that  if  nothing  entirely  virgin  comes  along, 
-*-  299  -*- 


GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

it  will  take  something  quite  old,  and  give  it  a 
new  twist  and  adopt  it  with  Village-like  ardour. 

Oh,  you  mustn't  laugh  at  the  Village,  you  wise 
uptowners, — or  if  you  laugh  it  must  be  very,  very 
gently  and  kindly,  as  you  laugh  at  children;  and 
rather  reverently,  too,  in  the  knowledge  that  in 
lots  of  essentials  the  children  know  ever  so  much 
more  than  you  do! 

It  is  true  that  changes  do  come  over  the  Vil- 
lage like  the  waves  of  the  sea,  even  as  my  friend 
said.  But  they  are  colourful  waves,  prismatic 
waves,  fresh,  invigourating  and  energetic  waves, 
carrying  on  their  crests  iridescent  seaweed  and 
glittering  shells  and  now  and  then  a  pearl.  The 
Village  has  its  treasure,  have  no  doubt  of  that; 
never  a  phase  touches  it  but  leaves  it  the  richer 
for  the  contact. 

You,  too,  going  down  into  this  port  o'  dreams 
will  win  something  of  the  wealth  that  is  of 
the  heart  and  soul  and  mind.  You  will  come 
away  with  the  sense  of  wider  horizons  and 
deeper  penetrations  than  you  knew  before.  You 
will  find  novel  colours  in  the  work-a-day  world 
and  a  sort  of  quaint  music  in  the  song  of  the  city. 
Some  of  the  glowing  reds  and  greens  and  purples 
that  you  saw  those  grown-up  children  in  the 
Village  joyously  splashing  on  their  wooden  toys 
or  the  walls  of  their  absurd  and  charming 

-*-  300  -*• 


A  LAST  WORD 

"  shops  "  will  somehow  get  into  the  grey  fabric 
of  your  life;  and  a  certain  eager  urging  under- 
tone of  idealism  and  hope  and  sturdy  aspiration 
will  make  you  restless  as  you  follow  your  com- 
mon round.  Perhaps  you  will  go  back.  Perhaps 
you  will  keep  it  as  a  rainbow  memory,  a  visual- 
isation of  the  make-believe  country  where  any- 
thing is  possible.  But  in  any  case  you  will  not 
forget. 

Many  a  place  gets  into  your  mind  and  creates 
nostalgia  when  you  are  far  from  it.  But  Green- 
wich Village  gets  into  your  heart,  and  you  will 
never  be  quite  able  to  lose  the  magic  of  it  all 
the  days  of  your  life. 


THE  END 


301 


10 


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